Little Lotte of the Shade
by Senna Wales
Summary: We've all heard the famous Little Lotte fairy tale. But did you know that Lotte was real? This is her story, her life. Step into her world... if you dare. Lerouxbased, COMPLETE.
1. Little Lotte

Disclaimer: I don't want to write this disclaimer for every chapter, so from henceforth, let it be know that Little Lotte and all subsequent _Phantom of the Opera_ characters and objects do not belong to me!

A/N: To put this story in context, we may have been fooled by the pretty little fairy tale about Little Lotte, but to me it's simply a story of a woman's madness. And a madwoman in the 19th century did not garner sympathy from society. Just as it's not easy to understand the minds of the insane, I don't intend for it to be easy to understand what goes on through Lotte's mind. Her narration will be disjointed and convoluted, reflecting on how confused she herself is. Thus, this is not going to be an easy, straightforward, or literal read.

**Part 1: Little Lotte**

_Upsala, Sweden, 1869_

_Though it had been less than a week since he last appeared in my dreams, I missed him, and when he came to me that night, once again, I was overjoyed. He came as he always does, a vague shadow, an indistinct shape. Nonetheless, I could never forget him. I always knew when he would come: a haunting tune would herald his presence, a sweet song of such beauty that it drove me mad, that even as I woke I remembered._

_"Have you been practicing, child?" he said kindly to me._

_I trembled, fearful of his reaction. "No, I have not…"_

"_Come along then, and listen…" _

_And then he sang! Such powerful, emotional music! I felt myself lose any traces of skepticism and doubt, and was swept away by the melody. In my dream, I wept at the sheer beauty of the tune._

"_Did you enjoy that?" he said later. I nodded, speechless. "So long as you are willing to follow me, and me alone, you shall always hear me. Remember my music, Little Lotte!" said my Angel of Music as I woke up…_

For a minute I laid in my bed, eyes squeezed shut. I could hear the storm, which had darkened the sky for a week now, rage violently on outside. Though I wanted nothing more than to return to sleep and see my Angel again, a small voice in my head told me I had things to do…

Slowly, I climbed out of the covers and opened my eyes. Darkness. No, not the deep gloom of midnight. The sky outside my window was navy. Dawn would approach soon.

Ever since I was a child, I had had these dreams of what I soon termed, "the Angel of Music." He would come to me in my dreams, and would sing to me wonderful, beautiful songs. And often before he left, he would tell me, "Little Lotte, be a good girl in the daylight! Hang up your frock, put away your shoes and violin, and take care of your doll!"

Upon waking I would usually sing, so consumed was I by the haunting melodies that remained in my head. I would pick up my violin and play the music I had heard, astonishing myself with the clarity and perfection I emitted.

And as I played and sang, I could not stop thinking. Thousands of questions and curiosities and wonders coursed through my mind.

Thoughts of evil: what made something evil? Was evil to me evil to you?

And sin: what was sin? Doing something wrong? Knowing you were doing something wrong?

Questions of morality: Who decided what was right and what was wrong? God? What about people who do not know God, yet still maintain systems of morality? Who is right? Is anyone "right"?

Even as a small child, I thought about such things. If it could be thought of, I thought of it. I thought of everything…

I took my Angel seriously when he instructed me to take care of my belongings. I would obsessively hang my frock onto its hanger, arrange and rearrange my shoes, place and replace my violin in its case. Seven times I did each of these things; I was so worried that my Angel should find my items disarrayed! Then afterwards I would take my doll down from its shelf. I would comb her hair, and straighten her clothes, and shortly afterwards, in the shadows of the early morning, I would hear her speak to me.

That was how my parents often found me: sorting through my belongings, or talking to my doll, or singing, or playing, or thinking. My parents, far from being pleased with these developing oddities, took me promptly to see a doctor. Yet in the daylight, in the brilliant beams of the morning and afternoon, I found my mind wandering till I thought of nothing! I became the carefree, thoughtless child everyone is at that age!

"Charlotte, where do you get such ideas from?" the doctor had asked me kindly. I remember he was fairly young, with a mustache, slick, combed-back hair, and a clean, neat suit.

"Ideas? What ideas?" I repeated, puzzled.

"Ideas of sin… of evil… Who is telling you these things?"

"I don't understand! What are you talking about? Please, sir, can't I go now? I want to play in the sun!"

In the end, the doctor informed my parents that it seemed that in the daylight, my demons disappeared, and he advised them to let me spend as much time outside in the sun as possible.

I remember, that though I loved most going to sleep at night to be with my Angel of Music again, it was the trees, the grass, the meadows, the ponds, the sun, the sky – _nature_ that I loved as well! I loved the summer, and I loved climbing trees. Upon reaching the top, I would imagine I was a bird, soaring through the sun's rays and the sky, free from the confinement of this world. It was up in the trees, so close to the sun that I felt my soul was clear, that I could be free.

That was how I lived my life. Even as I grew up, I maintained this lifestyle. I knew that at this age of eighteen, any eccentricities I might display, no matter how reasonable they might seem to me, would not go tolerated by the rest of society. (Just think of how many potential suitors would be frightened away by my fancies!) So I made it a secret. I made sure to sing only when I was certain I was alone, to talk to my doll quietly, to sort through my belongings without drawing attention to myself.

But this morning…

This early morning, my parents were away! Only a few days ago they had gone north for a week for a funeral for a cousin on Papa's side. I did not know this cousin, but Papa knew him, and Mama wanted to accompany Papa for Papa's sake. Papa, however, thought I was too young to remain alone in the house for a week. They fussed and argued, but in the end Papa was simply too grief-stricken to engage in prolonged argument, and Mama won.

Secretly, I was pleased with the outcome. It was absolute freedom for a week, or even longer! Freedom! I did not need to wear my good dresses all the time or fix my hair nicely or any of the other rubbish so many ladies must deal with. I could sing as loud as I wanted, speak freely of anything, and talk to my doll as long as I wished.

So today I sang boldly, thinking about how this world defined madness. I folded my favorite frock, arranged and rearranged my red shoes, and straightened and placed and replaced my violin seven times each. Finally, I took down my beloved doll from her shelf. I straightened her tangled, dirty hair, smoothed the wrinkles and dust out of her faded frock, and sat her down in front of me. Presently, I heard her speak.

"Lotte, why don't you leave me alone? I like my hair and frock messy!"

"You mustn't say that! My Angel of Music would be so angry if I were to neglect you like that!"

"Why do you care what he thinks? If you obey him, you simply reinforce his expectations! Don't you hate putting away your frock, and your shoes, and your violin? It's such a bother to clean up all the time! If you don't want to do something, don't do it! Don't let him whip you in to his slavery! You need a mind of your own!"

I laughed. My little doll, who had no brain, was telling me to use mine!

"You may laugh, Lotte, but I don't have to do all that you do! I am frozen in place here, I cannot walk or run or skip as you do, yet I have more freedom than you will ever have!"

I stared at my doll. She had faded over the years. Her blonde curls were now a pale yellow; her blue eyes were foggy; a large chunk of her nose had chipped away; her lips, previously cherry red, were now a dull pink. Her light skin had turned into the color of parchment, spoiled by the dust, and her brilliant red frock was now a dirty gray, soiled by dirt and bleached by sunlight. Yet her mind – if you call could it that! – was as bright as ever, and still did not fail to trouble me with its cryptic warnings. Many times she had said this to me, and yet I still could not understand her meaning. How could a doll, an inanimate object, be freer than I? It was ludicrous!

Suddenly, I heard a muffled wailing outside. I froze at the sound of it. It was a chilling sound, the sound of a starved, dying being. Who could be outside now in this storm?

Hurriedly, I stood up and set my doll back onto her shelf, and ran out of my room. As I made my way down the hallway, the wailing grew louder. Finally, I approached the parlor, and I could hear the wailing from outside the door.

Did I dare open the door this night? What if… What if it were the Angel of Music? Who said the Angel of Music was not a real creature? Any being that came to me so vividly and so often had to be real! Truly he must be-

And even if it were not an Angel, once I discovered the source of the crying, I should probably be obliged to take it in. Most likely it was a beggar, and once you saw one, it became your duty to help it. What a tiresome duty that would become! It would never leave you, and would always expect food and clothing and shelter from you! And then one day, should you fail to provide for it, it would cry and pout and run out into the storm and become a beggar again, after all of the hard work you had put into it! Beggars were nothing but trouble, a hindrance to society!

But no, they could not help the state of being they found themselves in, could they? They were merely a result of society's ills, of society's mistreatment and mistakes. If society had made ways to help them, had educated them, had supported them, they could have succeeded! I could hardly blame them for their-

Or worse yet, what if it was a… a murderer! A kidnapper! A criminal crying wolf in an attempt to lure poor lambs such as myself out! What would it do upon finding a lone lady in her nightgown? Any number of things! Extortion, rape, murder, kidnap, torture, molestation, pillage, execution-

My mind whirled in the possibilities, of all of the scenarios and situations I might find myself in. The wailing grew louder, and I could not stop myself from thinking! I must decide! I must stop thinking!

No, it would never do to open the door! I was all alone this stormy night! I could not expect Papa to come to my rescue if trouble should ensue! It would be irresponsible of me to let anyone into this house! And besides, Mama and Papa had expressly told me never to let anyone in the house! I should stop thinking and go back to bed!

With every intention to return to bed, I found that my hand had already opened the door to let in the swirling wind and torrents of rain.


	2. Hospitality

I peered nervously into the darkness. At first I could see nothing, but then I looked down and noticed a huddled mass crouched on the doorsteps of my home. Quickly, I slammed the door, and stood against it, as if my small, slight frame could stop whatever that thing was from entering.

"No… please… ma'am… have mercy…"

A voice! A poor, pitiful, rasping voice! The voice of a skeleton, of a ghost, of a zombie, of a walking corpse! No, I could not let it in now!

"Please… open the door… my daughter…"

Surely wolves did not have daughters!

I opened the door again. This time I saw the face of the creature. It was a man, haggard and bedraggled. His face was wet, whether with rain or with tears I could not tell. In his arms, I now noticed, he cradled a small bundle. Wet, limp blonde curls poked out from it.

"Please… good lady… my child… we need shelter… at least… for now… please…"

I did not know what to do! So many choices! I could cast him out, and not risk getting the house and carpet dirty from their filth. I could let him and his daughter die in the rain. It was likely their own fault they were like this; why should I intervene with the consequences of their stupidity?

And yet, I could do something! I could bring them inside! I could save them! I had freedom of choice, at least; that was one thing God expected me to exercise!

"Come in, come in," I said uncertainly. The poor man positively crawled inside the house. I closed the door behind him, and led him to the couch in the parlor. The fire had died, and I would need to bring it back to life if this man and his daughter were to live.

For a few minutes the man and the little girl simply sat on the couch and quivered. The fire grew slowly, first becoming a few flickering flames, then expanding into a great fire, finally giving off warmth for the poor beggars. The man got off the couch, and huddled by the fire with his daughter. He slowly stripped off his outer coat, and then his daughter's coat. In the firelight, by which I could feel myself calming down, I could see the man better. He was thirty, perhaps forty. His hair was blonde and streaked with gray. His eyes were blue, and his frame was rather gaunt. His clothes were ragged, not the clothes of an aristocrat.

The little girl reminded me of myself when I was young! Aside from her clothing, which were likewise as ragged as her father's, she might have been me. She had golden curls, as golden as mine, and her eyes, closing in sleepiness, were a luminescent blue.

Her face, however, was flushed with fever. She drew deep, rattling, uneven breaths, and every so often, she would cough horribly, as if she would regurgitate her very heart. Even by the fire, she continued to shiver and quake.

They were soaked to the bone, and I could see that they, the little girl especially, would need a change of clothes. With no preamble, I left them shivering by the fire and ran down the hallway, taking care not to bump into the walls in the gloom. I entered my room, and opened my closet. My clothes were far too large for such a small, young girl, but I did find a few old dresses and frocks from my youth, and pulled those down hastily from my closet. I then ran to Papa's room and snatched a few old garments of Papa's for the man, praying that Papa would never discover I had lent his clothes, even his old ones, to some mendicant.

I also grabbed two blankets, and with a full load of garments and blankets, I returned to the parlor. The two were still sitting by the fire, and the man was resting a hand on his daughter's forehead. He looked up, a distraught look on his face, when he heard me enter.

I threw the clothes unceremoniously to the man.

"Wear these," I said tersely. "I shall return with some food. Please make yourself comfortable."

I ran to the kitchen, and ten minutes later, I returned with soup and boiled water. I noticed, with satisfaction, that the man and the girl were now properly dressed in dry clothing. The man had stopped shivering so violently, and his daughter, wrapped up in the blankets, looked slightly better.

"Sir, here is-" I began, but the man swiftly snatched the bowl from my hands before I could finish. I sat on the couch and watched, fascinated, as he tenderly patted his daughter with his free hand, speaking her name in a soothing voice. The little girl's eyes fluttered open, and her father gently spooned soup into her mouth. She was terribly slow and weak, and her father had to support her in his arms as he fed her, and yet he never complained once. He only patted her head lovingly, and sang a soft, sweet lullaby to her till she had finished and nodded off to sleep. He was a good singer, and I could scarcely believe that such a sweet voice could issue from the same haggard man who had begged with the voice of a corpse to be let in.

Then when the girl, though still sickly-looking, had fallen asleep, the man gently lifted her up and set her on the couch across from me. He finished the rest of the soup quickly. Between spoonfuls, he began to talk.

The man, I learned, was named Charles Daaé. He used to live in a small market-town nearby. His wife had recently died, and he had sold his land to roam Upsala with his six-year-old daughter, who's name was Christine. He played his violin and sang with his daughter for a living, barely surviving off of this meager wage.

Privately, I wondered if I should have left them to die. This man was a dreamer, and a foolish one at that. To engage in his own mad sorrow was one thing, but to subject his daughter to the vagabond life he led was even crueler! Yet, he insisted, as if he could read my mind, they had lived well, until the recent spring storm, which was when Christine had caught her cold. Then he had crawled from door to door, rejected by each resident there, and had finally collapsed at our doorstep.

"Thank you, Lotte, for your kindness," Daaé said when I had introduced myself. "You are truly an angel. I hardly expected you to open your door again, a lone girl in the doorway, and yet you did. You saved our lives. Christine's life."

I smiled. " It was the least I could do. You are welcome to stay here until Christine is well again. But now, I think it best that you slept. You may stay in my parents' room."

"Your parents' room? But where are your parents? Are they home? Are you alone?"

Though I was quite sure that they were innocent questions, I hesitated. I was utterly alone, completely at the mercy of a vagabond. Who knew what he might do once he knew my parents would not be returning for quite some time? I was beginning to regret I had saved their lives! It was simply too much to worry about!

"My parents are out for the time being, but they shall return shortly," I said finally. "You may stay in their room till then."

Daaé nodded. He did not even blink or turn sharply at my statement. Instead, he picked up his daughter gracefully – he was not thinking of me; his thoughts concerned Christine alone. I led them to Papa's room, and when they had settled comfortably into each other's arms, I exited the room, leaving them to their dreams.


	3. A Bird of Sunshine

Over the next few days, in the safety of a warm, dry house and plenty of sustenance to fill her tiny frame, Christine's health steadily improved. The fever left her, she stopped coughing, and soon she found the strength to wander around the house.

She even helped me with chores, although I must say that she only did so because her father helped me. She seemed terribly dependent on her father, following and clinging to him wherever he went. He never objected, however; in fact, he did not seem to understand how much influence he held over her actions. They simply loved each other, positively worshipped each other, and could not imagine doing anything that would hurt one another.

As an objective observer, it seemed to me that little Christine had lived her entire life surrounded by intense love, and I wondered how she would fare if her father died in the near future. It was not a morbid thought, I assure you, to imagine such a fate – their nomadic lifestyle only increased the likelihood of such an event. Christine was like a baby canary unable to leave her nest, and if her nest were taken away, would she fly or would she twirp bleakly and flutter to the ground until someone caught her in another nest? The latter seemed more likely, but it grieved me to think of her so incapable of independent motivation, so dependent on others' love. My doll agreed.

"We must do something to help her!" said my doll one day. "It is unhealthy that she should depend so heavily on anyone!"

Yet neither of us had any idea how to help her; as strangers, it was not our place to interfere with Daaé's parenting directly.

The storm finally lost its momentum the same day Christine grew well. That day, I woke up to find that the rain had stopped. The gray clouds parted, the sky became blue, and the sunlight shone through.

As soon as I had sang a little, put away my belongings, dressed, and said goodbye to my doll, I ran outside. The first order of business after any long storm is to climb a tree. It sounds silly, even to my own mind, but for me, it is such a wonderful act of freedom! After so many days confined inside, I longed to be freed of my walk on Earth, of the chains my home had ensnared me in. What better way to act on this longing then to climb a tree? To climb up and up and up, far away from the ground, far away from responsibilities and standards and expectations! Up there in the leaves, in the branches, so close to heaven, I could even pretend to be a bird, or an angel, and float serenely above the poor, plodding creatures of the Earth.

I ran to a tree nearby my home, a tree I always loved to venture upwards. I grabbed hold of the nearest branch. Truly, climbing was the easiest thing in the world; I hardly needed to think about it! I reached up for the next branch once I had steadied myself, and continued up, up, up, lithely passing through the damp leaves that brushed my face softly. It did grow darker as I continued my way up, and yet at the same time, brighter, as I came closer and closer to the sun. Little ants and small bugs crawled on the branches, but I did not concern myself with them; they were harmless. I continued climbing up, up, up, fingers and arms scraping against wet bark until finally, I had reached the top!

I sat on a sturdy branch, surveying the expanse before me. Little houses dotted the roadside, but further out, I could see the great forests and trees! How I longed to be there in the forest, away from these stifling houses! I looked up at the sky, and felt the warmth of the sun on my face. I even dared to let go of the branches with my hands and spread my arms as if I were a bird. I closed my eyes, imagining myself flying over the rooftops and the trees to escape into somewhere away from here!

It was so easy, really, to stand up and fly! Simply let go of the branches, leap into the air, and fly away…

For a moment, I considered the possibility seriously. But then I opened my eyes and looked back down on the ground and saw that little Christine and Daaé had exited my house and were watching me. I waved at them, and Christine and her father waved back.

Not yet, Little Lotte! You still have work to do!

So, I climbed swiftly back down, and at the last few feet, I jumped down to greet them.

"How are you?" I asked as I jumped down. "How was your rest? How is Christine? Is there anything you need? Anything that I can provide?"

Daaé shook his head. "You think of everything, Lotte! You needn't worry so much about us."

"Oh, don't worry about my thinking of everything. Up there, I think of nothing in the world. I feel so free of my worries, it's as if I could fly away from my troubles."

"Yes, you did look like a bird of the sunshine, with the sun glinting off your hair," said Daaé warmly. "It is good for you to get out of the house, to seize the chance to rest your busy mind in the air."

I looked at Christine, who looked rather fearfully up at the tree. She was far less pale today; she had probably recovered from the worst of her illness; a question to Daaé regarding her health confirmed my conclusion.

I noticed that in Christine's hand was my doll – my doll! She took it without asking! I wondered if the doll had told Christine anything as I had climbed up the tree…

"She saw your doll on the shelf and wanted to see it, so I got it for her," Daaé explained when he saw me staring at my doll. "How could I ever deny her her heart's desire?" He did not apologize. I don't believe he was sorry for allowing his daughter to meddle with my things. My earlier feelings of warmth and goodwill disappeared as I pondered over Christine's act of thievery and Daaé's inability to refuse.

I tried to smile forgivingly and said kindly, "Do you like my doll, Christine?"

Christine stared at me for a moment, then stared at my doll, then, with a shocking brusqueness, said, "No."

I looked quickly to Daaé, but he was smiling at his daughter, seemingly entranced by her. He was certainly not as perturbed as was I by this child's rudeness!

"No? But why not?"

"She's ugly," said Christine simply. "I used to have a prettier doll. Your doll is old and ugly. She's not nice. She's ugly like a spider." Christine's adorable little face wrinkled in disgust.

I tried not to slap this brat. She was insulting my doll! My doll could hear; did she not know that? I wanted to take my poor doll back from this child; why was she still holding it? Was not her father's love enough? Was she truly that needy of comfort?

Slowly, in as calm a voice I could muster, I said, "But she is my favorite doll, Christine! She's old, but she's also very wise! I used to talk to her all the time when I was your age, and she taught me all sorts of things!"

"Dolls don't talk."

What an unimaginative and deaf child this one was!

I tried to say more, but suddenly Christine threw my doll down and ran off, giggling madly. She tumbled onto the grass, soiling her frock and her shoes. My frock! My shoes! My favorite frock and red shoes in the world! Daaé laughed at the sight of her, while I stooped down to pick up my doll. Calmly, I smoothed her hair and her frock. Inside, however, I seethed with anger at Christine's disrespect.

For a while Daaé chased after Christine, running and laughing and tickling her, and the two were simply so happy together that I felt some of my anger slip away. Instead of wanting to hurt them, I only wanted to walk back inside and slam the door in their faces.

Finally, Daaé sat down on the ground as Christine sat in the grass, deftly tearing blades of it away. Presently, Daaé said to me, rather unexpectedly, "Your room is very neat, Lotte," he went on unexpectedly. "Your frocks, your shoes, your violin case, your doll… Everything tucked away so neatly. You take good care of your belongings."

I did not know what to say, so I thanked him. And then, spontaneously, I decided to test this man's gullibility, and perhaps even push his sense of dignity, if he had any.

"Mama always told me to clean up after myself. She always told me, 'Lotte, whatever you do, put away your frock, your shoes, and your violin! Take good care of your doll, I might not buy you another!' So I always tidy up my frock and everything else. At first I hated taking care of everything, but soon I realized it made my own life much easier, and neater. I love her very much for teaching me such values that are so beneficial to my own well-being," I concluded. I watched the man closely. I had indirectly insulted his parenting by contrasting between my own habits and little Christine's, who has now running rampant around the grass, further staining my dress. I had also lied. Would he notice? Could he tell?

Daaé nodded. "Ah, it is such a blessing when a child loves her mother so!" he said, gazing dreamily at his own child.

* * *

That night, Christine insisted on taking my doll with her when she went to sleep. Apparently, despite how "ugly" my doll was, she still wanted it there beside her. I could do nothing to persuade her otherwise.

"Please, Lotte, don't let her take me!" I heard my doll plead as Christine dragged her away.

I felt terribly guilty, but there was nothing I could do. It would be quite rude to act otherwise, to deny a guest her wishes. I thought I would never sleep without my doll's presence in my room, but I soon found myself in another dream with my Angel of Music. He spoke no words this time, no reprimands, only pure, haunting song.

* * *

_A/N: Er, I know this chapter seemed rather pointless. All I can say is, the tree and characterization are significant later on._


	4. The Angel of Music

When I woke up, with the sky resembling the night far more than the morning, I could think only of singing. I sang boldly, loudly, not caring if the whole world heard.

I did not hear my door swing open.

I did not hear his footsteps across my floor.

I did not realize anyone was there until I felt someone tap me on the shoulder.

I jumped and spun around.

One, enormous shade in the darkness! A menacing shadow in my house! A criminal! A murderer! A kidnapper! I would be killed!

"Lotte," said the shadow.

I looked closer, and in the dim candlelight, I could see it was Daaé. At his side was Christine (still clutching my doll!).

"Good morning," I said uncertainly. I felt embarrassed and annoyed that the two had caught me in this moment of practice for my Angel of Music. Practicing had become a private thing for me, and I felt uncomfortable when outsiders caught me singing for my Angel. I wished they would just leave me with my music.

"We woke to hear you singing," Daaé said.

My hand flew to my mouth. I truly had not realized I had sung so loudly! How thoughtless of me, to disturb my guests! I began apologizing profusely, but Daaé shook his head.

"Do not apologize! It was a blessing to hear you sing. I was quite impressed. Never have I heard such talent! How did you learn to sing like that?"

I did not know what to say. I had never told anyone of the Angel of Music. No one knew, aside from Mama and Papa. I looked from Daaé to Christine, who stared at me solemnly while, to my dismay, crushing my doll in her hands.

"Why do you ask?" I stalled.

"You sing beautifully! You are well off, a middle class girl, and surely you've been instructed. Have you been trained? Do you take lessons?"

"No, I do not." Not formal lessons with a physical being, at least.

"Then how did you learn to sing so well?"

I realized my blunder in not admitting to taking any lessons. True, I never had; but my confession would only heighten his curiosity. I should have lied! But… lying was wrong, was it not? Was it not a sin? I could not sin. Yet, another sin wouldn't hurt, would it? Just another-

What could I say? He would take me for a madwoman! Yet I was a madwoman already! Yet he was a stranger, he would leave soon, I would never see him again, so my secret would be safe! And surely, he would die, and my secret would die with him! Fools don't live long!

But what if he did live long? What if somehow this man got lucky and lived to tell the tale of the madwoman he met? That would never do. I could not tell him. No, I could not-

"That night, I had been dreaming. I dreamt of something so powerful, that I soon woke, unable to return to sleep" I said, hardly realizing I was speaking. Confound my mind at this hour! It seemed I had no control over myself in the shade of the night! "I dream of the same thing nearly every night, actually." I hesitated, and scrutinized Daaé's face for any signs of doubt or skepticism. The slightest flinch, the smallest smirk, and I would cease to tell my unlikely fairy tale.

"Please continue," said Daaé, taking a step forward.

"I cannot tell you. You will think me mad."

"I won't! The madder the story, the more I shall believe!" Daaé said, smiling, and I knew that this simple man would. His eyes glowed not only from the dim candlelight, but also from genuine, almost child-like interest. He took a seat in a chair by my desk, and sat Christine on my bed.

I hesitated, then said, "Sometimes, when I go to sleep, I hear an Angel of Music in my dreams. The first time I heard him was when I was just a baby sleeping in my crib; I remember it so clearly! I heard a beautiful, almost celestial voice. It was something I had never heard before. I have never seen him, but I shall never forget his music. When I wake up now, sometimes I find that I must sing these songs to relieve my mind of them. Such was the case the other night…" I finished vaguely. I would certainly not tell him of my other habits!

Daaé did not stare at me strangely. He looked completely serious, and awestruck.

"And is it… an enjoyable thing? Is it painful to hear him?"

I laughed aloud. "Painful! Certainly not! No, what I love most is to go to sleep and hear the Angel of Music in my head!"

"And this is how you have learned to sing like an angel?"

"If you insist on terming it that way, then yes."

"Did you hear that, Christine?" said Daaé excitedly. "An Angel of Music!" He sighed, and said, "If only your Angel came to me or my Christine! Do others hear him, or is he yours alone?"

I shrugged. What sort of question was that? Of course only I heard my Angel. He was my Angel, after all! But, I would humor the poor man – and even insult him and his unruly daughter in the process!

"No, sir, I am certain he comes to others, but only to those who are meant to hear him. And he only comes when they least expect him to, usually when they are sad and depressed and they can scarcely believe in a miracle. When he does come, he arrives at all ages, even to young children. But only to good little boys and girls," and here I cast an invisible smirk in the dark in Christine's direction. "Yet sometimes he does come to young children, which is why there are such talented young geniuses out there! Other times he waits for the child to grow up and mature. And then in a few sad cases, he will never arrive if the person is truly dreadful, or has a terrible heart or conscience." Those last few words were aimed at Daaé, for, in my opinion, he had no heart or conscience if he forced his daughter to live such a wretched life!

Daaé nodded, eyes alight. He accepted my every word so acceptingly! He did not even question how I had deduced all that knowledge; obviously a young girl such as myself would not have had the time to tour the world and discover all of the different geniuses who had been touched by an angel! I nearly laughed at the gullible fool.

"Oh, Christine, just think of it, he may come to you! You must be good, darling!"

I feigned a loud cough for a derisive snort. Christine? Good? She treated my doll horribly; there was no way my angel, who always expected me to take good care of my doll, would approach her!

Daaé's next words nearly stopped my heart.

"Lotte, you are so lucky to be one of the few who hears this Angel! You could be great someday! Why then do you stay inside this house? Where are your parents? Surely you could simply walk out now and build your own career!"

It was precisely what I had been thinking. Why did I not leave? My doll had always told me to run away, to free myself. I had the skill, the talent to provide for myself. Papa and Mama weren't even here now; this was the perfect time to flee!

I knew the answer. I simply wasn't brave enough to take that final leap in the air, to fly away from my nest. I was a middle class European girl, and ever since I was a small child, I had been drilled to prepare myself for marriage and my husband. I simply could not imagine a life on the road and the streets, singing for a living. I expected a safe marriage to a good husband, not an independent life fighting for my living! And while I lived under the safe wings of my parents, I did not dare-

My parents! When would my parents return? Today! No, not today! Yesterday! They were due to arrive now! Now! And they had instructed me specifically to let no one in the house! What had I done? I had let someone in the house, a man and beggar, no less!

"My parents are coming back today!" I said aloud in my distress.

Daaé's face fell. "I was looking forward to meeting them, Lotte, but today Christine and I are leaving, and so-"

"Wait – you are leaving?"

"The weather has cleared, and Christine and I shan't be a burden on you any longer." Daaé got up from the chair and plucked Christine off the bed. "Come now, Christine, leave Little Lotte's doll here. It is hers."

In the lightening sky, I noticed for the first time that Daaé and Christine were now wearing their old, tattered rags and traveling cloaks. How had I missed that? They were leaving! They were leaving, and I would not have to provide for them the rest of my life!

Christine stepped forward to hand me back my doll, but then I had an idea. An idea that seemed quite right and noble at the time, but in the back of my head I had a vague feeling I would regret it.

"Christine, keep my doll," I said. "You need her far more than I do."

Then, all at once:

"Really?" said Christine.

"Lotte! What are you doing?" shouted my doll in alarm.

"Yes," I said, not answering my doll. "But, could I have a word with her for a moment?" I added to Christine.

Christine looked to her father for help, and when he nodded, a bit mystified, she handed the doll to me.

"This is the only way," I whispered to my doll, my back turned towards them. "We agree that Christine must learn to fly on her own. You can teach her as you have taught me!"

"No, no, no, Lotte," said my doll, not bothering to keep her voice down. I glanced nervously at the Daaés, but they simply stared blankly. "She is a deaf girl, she will not hear anything I have to say. Look, she cannot hear me now! I cannot teach a student who has no will to act independently, a student whose mind is not her own. This is a foolish idea, you still need me; you still have so much to learn!"

"She needs you more than I," I insisted in a hushed tone, and with that, I turned back around and shoved my doll into Christine's hands. She smiled, pleased to have acquired a new friend.

"Come along, Christine, you shall keep the doll. We must be on our way now!" With that, Daaé and Christine made their way to the door, with my best friend in the world wailing in Christine's hands. I felt terribly guilty, but it was the only thing I could do!

They finally stopped at the door, and Daaé turned around to address me one last time. "I cannot express how thankful I am of your hospitality. Few would have taken us in, and I'm certain that without your help, Christine would have died." Daaé shivered at the thought. "I will always be grateful for your kindness, Little Lotte, and for your doll and your story of the Angel of Music! Really, you were too kind! I will make certain that Christine will always remember you, for I will always tell her your story!"

I ignored the man's babbling, distracted by my doll's crying. No tears poured down her face, she was incapable of moving, of fending for herself, but she controlled her mind, her feelings, and she wept without tears now.

Daaé extended a hand, and mechanically I shook it. Then he pushed Christine forward to shake hands with me. I took Christine's hand in mine, then let go.

"Thank you, again, Little Lotte…"

Then they were gone.


	5. A Fortunate Marriage

A/N: Thank you so very much for all of your reviews. :D Going into this fic, I knew that this would not receive many reviews at all for four main reasons: (1) It's not E/C. (2) It's not quick, easy, or mindless to read. (3) The main character technically does not exist. (4) It'll be hard to read because the narration is sort of stream-of-consciousness. So, I am not writing for reviews, only to get my ideas out. But I am definitely grateful for any reviews I get. :) They're so encouraging, and it's so nice to know that people are reading!

And, no, this is DEFINITELY not the end of my fic! There are probably about 10 more chapters to go. I have SO much planned out for Little Lotte!

Also, sorry if this chapter is boring. Each chapter that is titled "Part" is meant to serve mainly as background info for the next part of Lotte's life.

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**Part 2: Charlotte**

I should not have worried, for my parents did not arrive till evening. By then Daaé and his daughter had long gone, and with them, a piece of my childhood. I bought another doll to replace my old one, but no other doll would speak as mine had. I still met the Angel of Music in my dreams, still sorted my belongings with care, and though I remembered my doll and her instructions, the memories faded, and my doll's urgent warnings to remain my own person faded with them.

Years passed, eight years in fact, and yet I did not marry. I took a job as the teacher of a French language class at the local elementary school. (As was typical of middle class children, I had taken many enriching lessons throughout my life, including French.) I postponed marriage. It had become quite the fashion to marry later in life…

Then, one day, I noticed him in town. He was a Frenchman, I could tell. Judging by the clothes he wore, he was fairly wealthy. He was not ugly, nor was he handsome. He was older than I, perhaps ten years older, old enough to be a suitor Papa would approve of.

He saw me first. (He often says that it was the sun glinting off of my blonde curls, and my brilliant blue eyes that caused him to fall in love.) He approached me and we talked. He told me he was taking the summer off from his job as a manager to travel Sweden, and that he was quite glad to have happened upon this little town. He arrived in the certainty that there was nothing lovely in Upsala, certainly nothing that would impress him after his life of beauty and opulence in Paris. But, he happily informed me, he had proven himself wrong; for it was here that he met me!

Blushing furiously, I took his hand in mine and told him my name. No, I was not Little Lotte! Certainly not! Little Lotte was the name of a young child, a girl captivated by angels and dolls! I told him my name was Charlotte.

We spent time together, grew closer. Though he was terribly foolish and superstitious (he refused to kiss me during my cycles or during a full moon, for he was certain that both would bring bad luck to him!), he was an amusing man for his vices, a man of pleasure. I brought him home, and Papa and Mama, though slightly unhappy that of all the men in Sweden, it was a Frenchman I had taken to, were nonetheless glad that he was rich and well known in Paris. He was a worthy suitor, and in any case, perhaps the only one willing to court me – all the men in Upsala were at least vaguely aware of my past peculiarities, and avoided me like the plague!

He was not to know that, of course! And anyway, if he ever found out, he would love me, regardless, true?

He left at the end of the summer, and promised to return the next year. We wrote to each other frequently, expressing our endearments and eternal vows of love in flowery, grandiloquent prose. He told me of his worries, his anxieties of working as a manager, his inability to make rational decisions, and I reassured him, telling him he was doing well, he was wonderful, he was great:

_"My darling Charlotte, I mourn each day that I am away from you. This garish opera house is so lonely without you here by my side to comfort me, to walk with me down these dark corridors. Work is busy as usual, and it is so difficult to bend to the whims of such an unreasonable management! I am sure that if you were here, all would be well!"_

And I would write back,

_"I miss you far more than you will ever know. I think I shall go mad if you do not return soon! You need only to say the word, and I shall return with you to Paris! You are such a wonderful manager; I cannot believe that you could decide wrong. I assure you that you are doing well, the best a manager could do! Till then, I send my love."_

In likewise manner we continued to send each other notes, all filled with half-truths that hinted at our secrets and our pasts. Perhaps if we had read between the lines we would have realized we were getting into far more than we bargained for!

However, I was certain that he would never return. He was a man of pleasure – surely he could not bear to be committed to one Swedish girl a thousand miles away! Yet he returned, to both Papa and Mama's surprise and mine.

The summer that he returned, we grew even closer, grew to know one another. Mama was ever so careful about guarding my virginity, for it was my highest virtue, the greatest gift I could give to my future husband. She closely monitored our interactions with each other when we were at my house. I sat on one couch and he sat on the other. We never sat too close in Mama or Papa's presence.

Still, prostitutes teach young boys in the brothels, and lovers teach chaste girls in the grass!

And besides, one never goes into marriage without knowing if the other party is capable of producing an heir. What bad luck it would be to marry and discover that the other side is sterile! Then what is a girl to do?

So I kissed him, and he kissed me, all over, and we loved each other in the grass. And though we knew each other, we knew and cared little for each other's mind or character. It was a very physical love, and in the end, the initial rush of infatuation faded away to coldness and emptiness. The only things left were lust and wealth, and I should have realized the mistake we were making – neither of us would be happy when we grew old and ugly and the flow of money ended!

Still, I continued spending time with him, and the more I did, the less I saw of my Angel of Music, the less I arranged my belongings, the less I thought and sang and played. I ignored the small voice in my head that reminded me that my doll would never have wanted me to so willingly give myself up for a silly, superstitious man. I felt sad to abandon my old friends, but I fancied that I loved him, and that he loved me! In any case, his body and the way he treated my body were good enough reasons to avoid my old friends.

Finally, one day, at the end of the summer, he asked my father for my hand in marriage. Ordinarily, Papa would have refused. To marry his daughter off to a Frenchman! Absurd!

...Of course, money does speak louder than ethnicity. After all, the Frenchman was rich. He held status back in Paris. He was old enough to know how to take care of a lady.

It is the vice of the middle class, to engage in this endless conquest to emulate the unhappy aristocracy. We abhor the idea of marrying for love as the poor, working classes do. We want to be rich and powerful, and so our fathers marry us off for money and status. It shall be our undoing, as it was for me.

In any case, the wedding took place in Paris. It was a lovely wedding, filled with white roses and beautiful, well known guests, and even staff members from the Opera House my now-husband managed. My family and I traveled all the way to France, and afterwards, amidst much tears and weeping, my family returned home, taking with them their memories of their bird of sunshine.

They left behind a young, lost woman named Charlotte, whose feathers had been clipped in matrimony.

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A/N: Reviews! Reviews! Any barrels of reviews to submit? ;) 


	6. Birdcage

A/N: **DarkPriestess** asked if I've read Christine Persephone's "Reflections." The answer? No, I actually have not read it! I'm curious to hear that our two dolls are so alike.. I shall definitely check that phic out. :) 

This chapter is when the not-so-easy-to-read part of this phic kicks in, and when Lotte's madness really starts to make her narration extremely irrational and confusing. Don't worry, though, the next chapter will be narrated by someone who witnessed the events in this chapter in a slightly more rational state of mind!

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Paris, France, 1878 

The Angel of Music came to me, even after all these months. Perhaps not every night, perhaps not all the time, as he did before, but often enough that I would not forget him soon. Still he remained, singing softly, mocking me:

"Do you think that I would leave you, Little Lotte? Do you think that growing up means leaving me behind? I am no childhood memory! I am with you, always!"

_Sometimes I would simply nod and give myself up to his melody. Other times, such as tonight, I would shout back._

"_Leave me!" I scream. "Leave me be! I am no longer your protégé, your project! I am no longer Little Lotte! My name is Charlotte! I am a married woman! You can't control me, not anymore!"_

_This time he laughs. Mirthlessly. The shadow his voice emanates from twists around me. "Leave you? Do not be silly, child! You cannot fend for yourself in this terrible world! Do not expect your darling husband to save you from the darkness of your mind! No, listen to me! He will simply take you away and submerge you in darkness, and you shall never see the sun again! Do not deceive yourself; you will never have control! Only at night, in your mind, in your dreams, places that he cannot control, will you find freedom!"_

"_No! You are not freedom! Madness is not freedom! I am slowly going mad, and it is because of you! He will discover you, and then _my_ dream will end!"_

"_Madness is your freedom," he says softly. "That is where he cannot control you, where no one may control you… _Your_ dream is fruitless… But come now, the night draws to a close soon… Sing for me, child…"_

_And helplessly I sing, singing in a voice I hardly recognize. His voice fills my dream, and I mimic him, growing stronger in my intonation. Yet when I grow tired, and cease my songs, angels and demons surround me. Angels so beautiful, weeping, so ashamed to be in my presence, the presence of a sinful, disgusting daughter of Eve… Demons with gnashing teeth, rolling eyes, tormenting me, hissing at me, whispering to me all of the sins I had committed…_

"_Please… leave me…"_

"_Only submit to me, Little Lotte… then they will leave…"_

"No…"

I suddenly woke up. No angels or demons or dark shadows. Only a dark, expansive room. Where was I? My eyes darted around the room. I did not recognize this place, this sleeping form lying beside me in this foreign bed, the small bundle in the cradle nearby. Where was I? Who was I?

Slowly, carefully, so carefully, so as not to wake the sleeping form next to me, I sat up. In the chilling white light from the moon streaming midnight gloom, I studied the person sleeping beside me. It was a man, older than me, with streaks of gray hair on his head and mustache.

Ah, yes. My husband. Henri. Over there, in the cradle, was my baby. My baby. Scarcely one month old and with wispy brown hair, bundled up in blankets, sleeping peacefully. Adele.

And I? I was Charlotte.

What a pitiable and sad creature I had become!

Just one month ago, and only six months since I had been wed, and after hours and hours of labor and agony, I gave birth to my daughter. She slowly crawled her way out, a screaming, wailing mass of blood and mess. I laid on my back, gasping, weeping in pain and frustration. Throughout the entire ordeal, I could only think of one morbid thing, could silently chant to myself only one mantra that kept me sane…

_In pain she was born, and in pain she will leave…_

Yet after the midwife had cleaned the babe and wrapped her in a blanket, she truly was a beautiful little girl! Perfect, angelic features, lovely brown hair, innocent brown eyes, delicate little fingers and toes. Simply sublime. We named her Adele.

"Oh, Charlotte," my husband had cried out. "She's wonderful!" He cradled the darling baby in his arms, smiling benignly. I could only smile weakly in return.

And yet…

And yet…

Her next cry, her next wail of loneliness and hunger, brought fear and sadness to my heart. My husband quickly released our daughter to me and strode from the room, not knowing how to care for this innocent being. Wearily I brought her to my breast, to give her that chance at life that she so greedily sought. I wept as she fed, tears falling in spite of the fact that there had been no miscarriage, no complications. Such a fortunate birth.

Such an unlucky, untimely birth!

For what hope was there for this child, or for me? Both of us, females, bound to a life of domesticity and submission. Men would always lord over us and refer to us as "mine." _My_ Charlotte. _My_ Adele. _My_ little darling. You are _my_ wife.

_In pain you were born, and in pain you will leave…_

Had I wanted this child? Did I want to live a life bound to caring for this creature? For the next twenty years this would be my role: mother, guardian, caregiver. Had all my lessons and experiences come down to this? A simple role, confined to this nest? This birdcage? What escape was there for _me_? Married to a superstitious fool, destined to live out the best years of my short life in a house – there was no hope for _me_!

My Angel had been right, I realized with renewed sadness. I could not own my own body, my own life…

Yet there was still one way out, was there not?

No! I would not go mad! I would control my mind!

No, there was never only one choice. There was always the alternative.

Madness…

…or death!

I realized, too late, I was crying. A tear splashed onto Adele's darling face. She stirred in her sleep, frowned, wiped the mark of depression from her cheek. She turned over onto her side, away from her mother.

How could she do that to me! To turn from her own, weeping mother! Her own mother who had nothing but her daughter's best interests in mind!

What were her best interests?

Surely not to live in this prison, this shell that she could not own. Surely not.

To live was to lose, but to die was to gain…

My hand gently patted Adele's head, swept down her neck. I picked her up, gently, quietly, no, don't shake her, don't drop her, not yet at least, just lift her into your caring arms, carry her to the window, walk softly, like a cat, don't wake up the man in the bed over there…

You see, little Adele! Look at the brightening sky! It is nearly daylight! The night and the moon fade, they escape the sun! Here, on this wretched earth, you will never reach the stars, the sun, the sky! But I can help you, dear Adele, I can help you reach the heavens!

The window is open. The air is crisp. A gust of wind pushes through, rattling the curtains, the papers, even the blankets. The air resembles none of the sweet pure breeze in Sweden. No, this is Paris, this is France, filled with ghastly buildings and narrow streets and animals and horses and humans all packed into one little sidewalk. No beauty, in this place. A fitting end of human life.

See, Adele! This is the life ahead of you! Do you want this? How can you want this life? Even outside buildings confine you! Tell me you want freedom!

"Charlotte?" said a muddled voice.

I jumped, startled, and nearly dropped Adele out the window.

"Charlotte, what are you doing by the window? What are you holding outside?" My husband sat up in his bed, rubbing his eyes. I quickly withdrew Adele, who still slept serenely, back inside. "What are you doing? Why is the window open? I woke up to feel a wind blowing against my head! What are you doing?"

"I nearly dropped Adele outside of the window! Don't ever do that again!" I replied flatly.

He blinked. He was still more asleep than awake. He slowly rose to his feet and crossed the short distance between the bed and the window to stand beside me, wrapping his arms around me. "Charlotte, darling, what are you doing? How long have you been standing out here? You're nearly frozen to the floor, you'll catch your death of cold standing here in your nightclothes!"

"Shush, Adele sleeps. I was not doing anything, just showing Adele the beauty of Paris," I said calmly, emotionlessly. How long had I been standing there? Hadn't it been midnight when I had woken up? And now it was not moonlight streaming through the window, but the dawn.

The man shrugged and withdrew his arms from around me. I glanced briefly into his eyes, which were troubled and confused. "I thought for a moment… But no, I must have been dreaming… Blast, what time is it? I've got to be at the Opera House early today! I'll be right back, darling… And do put on a blanket!" With that, he dashed from the room, stopping only to pull on a robe.

I turned back to the slumbering innocent resting in my arms. No? Is the world too dreary for you, Adele? Then perhaps you would like a song! You won't mind if I set you on the window again, would you? There, there, that's a good girl. Just listen to this song, Adele! My own Angel of Music taught me everything I know! Do you hear the Angel when you sleep? You must! I will try to show you what he sings to me!

I began to sing softly at first. Then, my vocalization grew louder, louder and louder and louder as I strove to match the intensity and force that my Angel always demonstrated when he sang.

Oh, no, Adele, don't cry! It's a lovely song! True, it's no lullaby, but you must love it! You will have to love it if you wish to hear the Angel of Music when you sleep!

Dratted child! Stop crying! Stop crying! That is no way to thank the Angel of Music for his songs! He will never visit you, little toad!

"_Charlotte? What are you doing?_"

It is that man again! That man who always stops me from my singing! That man who clipped my feathers, who ended my song, who entrapped me in this cage! Ignore him, Adele, ignore him!

"_Charlotte!_"

Oh, Adele, do stop crying! It's not that bad, really now, you are being ridiculous!

"_Charlotte!_"

No, no, stop, _monsieur_, I tell you to release my child! She's mine, not yours! Let her go! _Oui, oui, monsieur_, I will fight you until you let go of my child!

"_Charlotte, stop it right now!_"

I feel a blow to my head and sink to the floor.

* * *

A/N: Confused by what mental illnesses Lotte suffers from? I can name 4:

(1) Schizophrenia (the hallucinatory dreams of her Angel of Music, talking to her doll)

(2) Obsessive-compulsive disorder (always putting away and taking care of her frock, shoes, doll, etc.)

(3) Post-partum psychosis (obsessive concerns with Adele)

(4) An unhealthy dose of feminism relative to the Victorian era. ;)


	7. Interlude

A/N: Here it is, the interlude that will possibly help explain exactly what happened in the last chapter! I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but here it is.

* * *

The house I live in on Rue Auber is a wonderful house. I like it, at least. It is three stories tall, with a dark, rather stifling attic up near the roof. The ground floor consists of the usual things one might find in a house – the kitchen, the dining room, the work room, the parlor, and so on. On the second floor there are bedrooms, including the room where my wife, my daughter, and I sleep. The third floor is reserved for guests and for the three maids I have.

Of the three maids, only one of them, Mlle. Margot Lautrec, a lovely girl, really, with dark brown hair, pale white skin, and a kind, gentle face, stays in the house at all times. The other two often return home for the evening, but I hired Mlle. Lautrec to remain constantly. Lately, she has proven indispensable, looking after Charlotte during the daytime while I am away at work.

She is indispensable, you see, because lately Charlotte has been acting strangely – even mad! When I first met my wife in Sweden, she seemed innocent and rational, with her beautiful sunshine hair and clear blue eyes. Even after we were wed, she seemed just as wonderful as before. I thought she had been perfectly content, and was certain that after giving birth to our beautiful daughter, Adele, she would be even more joyful! After all, what can be happier for a woman than motherhood?

Astonishingly, soon after giving birth, Charlotte became sad, irrational, and confused. I often returned from the Opera House not to find a beaming, joyful wife but a morose, weeping woman who silently cradled our daughter in her arms as tears poured down her cheeks. She would not tell me what was wrong, only that she felt sad, that she feared for Adele's future.

"Nonsense!" I replied the first time. "She will grow up to be a fine, respectable young lady, and will most certainly marry a man of high class!"

And at this, to my bewilderment, Charlotte would become even more distressed.

Recently she had become even more befuddled and strange. At night, she was restless, and often paced our bedroom, muttering to herself. She seemed unable to sleep, and when I ordered her, even begged her to return to bed, she would come back and begin talking about – about everything! She talked about God, about the universe, about morality, about sin, about society, practically everything she could think of and I was simply helpless to stop her! Yet in the morning, if after she finally returned to sleep, her mind was completely blank, and she thought of nothing.

She even began to obsessively fold and hang our clothes. She would throw all of our clothes onto the floor, then hang and fold each jacket, each coat, each dress, each suit one by one back into their respective places – then take them all out and do it all over again.

Thus, you can see how Mlle. Lautrec became incredibly helpful. She watches over Charlotte while I am away, and reports to me any strange events that occur in my absence. And when Charlotte is most distressed and uneasy around Adele? Then Mlle. Lautrec assumes the role of nurse – even mother! – for my poor child.

I smiled to myself, standing just outside of the door to my house as Mlle. Lautrec ran from the kitchen to close the door for me. She was truly wonderful. She performed all of the duties a wife would – she was kind and gentle, sweet and friendly, always cheerful and diligent in her duties. With Charlotte hardly acting rationally or sympathetically, I had even taken to confiding in Mlle. Lautrec my anxieties, my worries about managing the Opera House.

Charlotte used to share my concerns for the Opera House. Lately, however, she had taken to smirking condescendingly, as if I were some fool of a manager who did not know what he was doing.

Mlle. Lautrec, I soon discovered, responded far more compassionately. Her deep, brown eyes would widen in concern, and her slight, small hands would fly to her mouth as I described to her the unreasonable demands the management made. Then, her hands would grab mine, and her lips would part to form comforting sounds of reassurance, and for a moment, I could forget my earthly responsibilities and boundaries and live for the pleasure of a moment…

"Have a good day, monsieur," Mlle. Lautrec said politely as she approached the door. "Is there anything I should know about… your wife… before you leave?"

I nodded. Truly, she was wonderfully perceptive and intuitive, even though she had not been there to witness what I had. She was a fine young lady (and beautiful, besides!) and would make any man happy to have her to love, and eventually wife. "Actually, things shall be different today. Charlotte needs to rest in the attic today… Poor thing, really quite out of her mind! She is exhausted, and there's nothing like a bit of rest in the dark that'll make her well again. In any case, you must take care of Adele today." Mlle. Lautrec nodded. "But listen to me, mademoiselle," I continued, a bit sterner and more urgent. "On no occasion is Charlotte to leave the attic, do you understand? And, more importantly, on no occasion is she to see Adele!" My last sentence came out shriller and shakier, indiscreetly revealing the inner turmoil I was feeling at the moment.

Mlle. Lautrec placed a soft, warm hand on my hand, attempting to console me. It worked, for I was distracted by her gentle touch and breathed easier. I marveled; for a maid, her hand was so soft! Oh, if only my wife would touch me so delicately again! Where had she gone? Who was this unfamiliar savage that had taken her place?

"I know, monsieur," Mlle. Lautrec said in a soft, lovely voice. "I know. Adele is safe with me." She rested her hand on mine for a moment longer, then released it, smiling shyly. I nodded briskly. "Have a good day, mademoiselle. And thank you… Margot."

With that, I dashed away to my carriage. What a strange morning this was! First my own wife attacked me, then I called my maid by her first name…

I felt a pang of guilt. My wife was not well; I could not blame her for not acting as the loving, caring, docile wife she should. Yet, I had not the courage to confront the question of my affections: Did I truly enjoy the presence of my maid more than that of my own wife?

By the time I reached the Paris Opera House, I had lost all my previous composure. I was shaking so hard by the time I walked through the doors that I was hardly able to navigate the maze-like building to reach my office. At long last, I reached the office, and flew through the door and collapsed into a chair. Debienne was already there, and he rose from his chair, alarmed.

"Poligny! What is wrong?" he exclaimed, concerned.

I could not speak for the next minute, so terrified I was by what had come to pass less than forty-five minutes ago.

"Poligny! Answer me! What was it? Is it the theatre police? Are they investigating the premises again?"

"No!" I managed to gasp. "No! Not the theatre police! Far worse! My wife!"

"Charlotte?" said Debienne, comprehension dawning upon his face.

"Yes…"

After I had woken up that morning and could have sworn I had seen Charlotte hanging our own daughter out the window, I left the bedroom to get ready for work. I had been uneasy, for though I was certain it had been my imagination, I could not forget what I thought I had seen. Unsettled, I made my way back up the stairs to our bedroom. Along the way I had heard two unearthly sounds: a voice, singing beautifully and yet chillingly, coldly, and another voice, this one of a baby wailing and screaming pitifully.

Alarmed, I raced up the stairs, shouting, "Charlotte? What are you doing?"

When I heard no answer, I ran faster and flung open the door. "Charlotte!" I roared when I saw what was happening.

Inside, my wife was standing a yard or so away from the window, by herself. Her back was to me, and she did not even turn around when I entered the room, but continued to sing that strange, unearthly song.

More upsetting was the fact that a yard or so away on the windowsill rested my daughter, Adele! Adele was screaming and wailing on the windowsill, beating her fists furiously, and if she were not careful she would fall to the streets below!

"Charlotte!" I shouted as I raced to the window, desperate to snatch my child from her fall. I seized my child, and at that instant my wife leaped upon me, beating upon my shoulder, lapsing into Swedish and French.

"Charlotte, stop it right now!" I shouted, shielding Adele, all the time wailing terrifically, from Charlotte's flailing fists. When she refused to quit, I drew back my own fist and pummeled her soundly in the face, and she collapsed to the floor, as if she were a marionette and her strings had been cut in the middle of the puppet show.

I related my woeful tale to Debienne, and he could only shake his head in disbelief. When I finished, we were both silent for a long, long time. I knew my co-manager, though. He was no fool, and he had an answer to everything.

Finally, I said, "What am I to do? Much as I would like to divorce her and send her to an insane asylum and be done with it, I can't… My reputation… Society's standards… Word spreads quickly around the opera, and the patrons don't like it when their managers can't even marry respectable women… And, anyway, she can't help herself, poor girl! It's just… wrong… to forsake her like that."

And I truly believed in what I said. Though I certainly enjoyed the quick pleasures of life, I knew where I stood, and I knew that I could not simply abandon my wife. And besides, what would society, with its clear standards on marriage and divorce, think of such a careless upper class Parisian?

Debienne nodded, thoughtful. "No, you're right, a divorce would be the wrong thing to do… Both for her and for you, financially, and for our reputation… At least for now…"

I hung my head, ashamed, ashamed of the creature I had wed. "Then what shall I do? Right now I am keeping my wife in the attic, at least until she gets better."

"Is your child away from her?" inquired Debienne sharply.

"Of course."

"Good," he said. He hesitated. "I am… I am no doctor. But… Are you familiar with Weir Mitchell?"

"The neurologist? The one with his 'rest cure' theory for hysterical, female patients?"

"The same. I would advise you to follow his therapy, for it seems that your wife is suffering from hysteria. Let your wife get plenty of rest. Keep her inside at all times. Do not allow her any stimulation or work, or anything that might cause her to exert herself or to think. She thinks too much, and it is her exhaustion from thinking and working that prolongs her insanity. And, this is simply my own opinion, but I would keep her out of the sunshine as much as possible. Light will only further stimulate her mind, and that is the last thing she needs. And, of course, keep your child far out of her reach. The last thing she needs is to taint your child with her madness."

I nodded, stunned at the wisdom of my friend.

"Thank you," I managed to stammer. "You, so wise, how…"

Debienne merely waved his hand dismissively. "It is nothing. But now… what of that last note the Opera Ghost sent us?"

I pulled out the latest note from the Opera Ghost and showed it to Debienne. Inside, however, I paid little attention to Debienne's comments. Inside, I was rejoicing! Charlotte need only be confined to the bed in the attic and she would be well again! Women are absolutely hysterical, you know – they develop all these silly thoughts about freedom and independence and having a voice when all they _really_ need is discipline and some rest. A little bit of rest washes away all alarming thoughts!

In the meantime, who was to say that I was to remain celibate while my pathetic wife recovered? I owned an Opera House, and I should think I deserved a little bit of pleasure and fun now and then. And anyway, there was always Margot to help me through my sorrows!

* * *

A/N: Dr. Weir Mitchell was a real neurologist from America. In 1877, a year before this part of the story, he wrote the book _Fat and Blood_, which describes his famous rest cure. It's pretty much exactly as Debienne described it. The stuff about the light is Debienne's own opinion. The rest cure was more popular in America and England, although a few in France did know about it. For my purposes, the Debienne is a well-read man and knows about the rest cure, albeit unprofessionally. Also for my purposes, because of Debienne's and Poligny's lack of professional training with the rest cure, the way Poligny will administer it to Charlotte will not be completely consistent with how Mitchell describes it.

Is there something more going on between Poligny and Mlle. Lautrec? We'll see! ;)

I love reviews! ;)


	8. Shades of the Mind

A/N: Thank you, everyone, who has been reading and reviewing! You are few in number but uplifting in your comments. :) This was both a very easy and very difficult chapter to write. Hope you like it, and please review. :)

Big thanks to my beta-readers, Masque de Nuit and singforme. :D

* * *

I am surrounded by such loving people! Uninformed, mistaken people, yes, but so loving!

My husband is so kind to me. I do not feel well, and some time ago, a few months, perhaps, he finally gave in and allowed me my own private room and bed at the top of the house, at least until I am well again.

Furthermore, one of our maids, Mlle. Lautrec, is so generous and charitable. She stays in the house all day and relieves me the burden of caring for Adele at all times. I do hope that my husband has raised her salary; her work deserves far more than what an average maid receives.

Yet, though the people who live here love me dearly, I do miss Adele. I hardly ever get to see her, only when Mlle. Lautrec has her in her arms and comes to check on me. Otherwise, my baby is only a ghost to me. She is growing up, I know, and it saddens me that I am not there to witness it. Should not a child's mother have the most direct influence on her own child? I only wish so.

Besides, I am afraid that Adele shall grow up unhappy. I wish to be there to guide her, to show her the way to freedom…

Moreover, though it heartens me to think that my husband loves me so much that he would give me my own private room and bed at the top of this house, I feel so lonely and stifled up here. It is dim, for there are only two small windows to let in the sunlight. The light casts shadows upon the wall and in the corners. Sometimes I watch the shadows move from one side of the room to the other as the day progresses. They appear to walk, to glide across the room, just as a real person might.

I am only grateful that Mlle. Lautrec takes care of Adele most of the time – I would hate for Adele to be confined to this dim, dark room with me all day as I recover. Such a darling baby – if only I could remember her features better!

Sometimes I wonder if I have recovered any faster since the day my husband first brought me to this room. He is very, very careful to monitor my schedule. He admonishes me to sleep more, to rest, to not spend so much time awake and thinking or looking out the windows. He also gives me tonics and medicines and all sorts of strange things to consume – this, I suppose, is meant to make me get better sooner, though I fancy that they are mere placebos. In fact, I suspect that they only put me to sleep faster.

Of course, I do not object to more sleep. It is in sleep and in my dreams that I find refuge with my Angel of Music. As I sink into slumber, I sink into myself, into the hidden shades and darkness of my mind to find freedom of thought and movement in my Angel. In my dreams, we sing. I sing as loud as I please, and when I am done, I wander far across the landscape of my mind. I explore the valleys and shades, trespass where others would advise caution. My husband cannot touch me here; he cannot control where I go. It is there in the shades that I find I am free to think and imagine what I wish. It is there that the reality of life, this boring, confining existence up in this room, ceases to exist… and it is there that I find myself free.

I say boring because there is nothing in this room to occupy my mind. There is the bed, which my husband hired someone to nail to the floor, and there are the windows and garden and buildings outside. The walls are bare, the floor, bare. There is nothing else. I do have a dresser and a closet with my clothes inside, and though it is fun to throw out my clothes and fold them again and again (what else can I do!), that becomes dull soon enough.

I wish I could simply pretend to take my tonics and instead sleep without them, but Mlle. Lautrec and my husband are terribly careful to make sure I consume what is needed to make me better. There is no hope of fooling them!

Or, if I cannot evade taking those medications, I wish I had something in here to occupy my mind. I cannot always sleep, and there is nothing to read or do while I am awake. I would like a book, perhaps. The daily newspaper, even. Anything to exercise my mind and give me something to think about. Otherwise, I daresay that it is this endless monotony that drives me mad, that drives me to return ever more to the shades of my mind.

I cannot tell that to my husband, though. Though I do try to tell him, he insists that it is only such thoughts that bring on my instability. Just a little more rest, a little more sleep, and soon I shall be well…

* * *

It is horribly lonely up here, with only Mlle. Lautrec coming upstairs to check on me periodically, and the other maids entering regularly to clean the room. Not that there is much to clean – there is nothing here to begin with.

But as I was saying, I see my husband less and less now. True, every night after work he comes to my attic to see me – but that is only five minutes out of our married life. He tells me that business at the Opera House is terribly busy – it is always the management, the management, the management that he excuses his absences with.

"That dratted partner of mine!" he tells me when I ask why he has returned so late. "He is so unreasonable, and insists on the most untimely auditions!"

I wonder why he simply does not stand up to such a foolish manager, or at least fire him, but I suspect it is because of one or a combination of two things:

My husband is a fool. I never realized it when I married him, but he is a fool. I found his superstitious nature charming at first, but now… Now, it is probably his superstition that makes him think that sleeping all day in the dark will make me well again.

So, my foolish husband cannot stand up to an "unreasonable" fellow manager. Poor fool, he thinks so highly of himself, too!

The second reason is: this manager does not exist. I am quite confused over exactly how many managers there are, if there are any at all. I was certain that my husband was co-manager with only one other. This one I am quite certain is real. He is said to be very helpful and supportive, and shares my husband's beliefs about the management.

But then there is the "other" manager. I am not certain if there is indeed a third one, or if my husband is speaking ill of his partner. In any case, this particular manager is deranged and inane, with unreasonable requests and frightening threats. I strongly believe that this particular manager is a mere phantom of my husband's mind, simply a figment of his imagination.

Personally, I believe that my husband should deal with his own ghosts and come home sooner. I told him that once, irritably and moodily when he came home particularly late. He only chuckled in response, called me his darling little lady, patted my head, and left the room.

If there is indeed no ghost, no other manager, then I wonder what keeps my husband so busy all the time…

I wish he would understand that it is so lonesome up here, with only the shadows to watch as they cross the room each day. True, there are the windows and the little light that enters. I believe that without those windows, I would be quite mad by now!

Outside of one window, there is an immense tree, with long branches full of beautiful green leaves. Sometimes I see little birds flitting through the leaves, and they are so lovely to watch. I long to climb out the window and climb that tree just as I did so long ago when I was young and free, but the glass is so thick, I could never dream of even breaking through.

Outside the other window there is a more dismal view of Paris. Tall, gloomy, gray buildings, people and horses plodding along dully across the muddy roads… It is a depressing sight.

I can't always spend my entire time pressed up to the windows, fogging up the glass with my breath, of course. So the rest of the time I sit on my bed and watch the shades cross the room from corner to corner.

The shades are rather like people to watch. Some of them are darker than others, depending on the time of day. Some are simply little blotches of gray, while others are deep hues of black. They creep along so oddly, darkening each portion of the wall as they pass by. Sometimes I even fancy that the shadows step out of their usual tracks and approach the bed where I sit, and I can only edge away farther and farther out of their reach. Then I leap off the bed and kick at the corners where the other shades are, hoping to discourage them in their pursuit.

Of course, it is pointless to attempt to control them. Shades cannot be controlled.

Nighttime is even better. Then, with only the stars and, once a month, the moon to cast such deep, impenetrable shades upon the wall that they seem to consume the room in darkness.

So, true, between the windows and the shadows, I really can't complain of boredom!

Still, I tell my husband that it is really far too lonely and frightening in this room.

"Oh, darling," he replies, "it is good for you to stay up there! Dear Charlotte, stay a little longer, and later we'll think of moving you, shall we?"

But I know that he will not move me, will not, unless I do something.

But what can I do? There is nothing here. Nothing.

* * *

Mlle. Lautrec – bless her kind spirit! – has taken to pity me. Every once in a while, sometimes only once a week, sometimes nearly every day, for an hour, she takes me out to walk around the house and around the city, she and me and Adele too.

Adele! Her brown hair is long and curly, and her eyes are so full of hope and innocence. She is over a year old now, and able to toddle about and stumble. I dare not let her walk alone along the streets, but keep a firm hold on her.

I am so grateful to Mlle. Lautrec, for I know my husband would hate to hear of my weekly excursions.

"You mustn't tell Henri," she told me the first time (I wondered, for a brief moment, that she should speak of my own husband so informally – but no matter! I was leaving the room!).

"Of course, Mlle. Lautrec," I reassured her calmly and carefully, scrutinizing her at the same time in the wonderfully bright light. Her dark brown hair was mussed up, her cheeks flushed, her clothes hastily put on and wrinkled, and there were even a few, faint bruises that stood out rather well on her pale skin.

I pointed out her altogether scruffy appearance, and she quickly replied, not quite bringing her eyes to meet mine, that she had practically fallen out of bed that morning, so clumsy of her.

I was quite surprised, for she is usually the most graceful person I know. Her appearance that day almost reminded me of myself when I used to…

But no matter. The point remains that sometimes I am free, for an hour or so a day.

And I get to watch my own daughter too! Adele is so beautiful now, so hopeful and optimistic and happy, and I love to watch her live so happily! She trots along down Paris' streets, smiling and giggling at the people and the horses and even the muddy puddles.

How wonderful it must be to live so innocently!

So different, anyway, from the shades in my room. I am so glad that Adele is not here to see what I see. Those shades no longer simply cross the room each day – they move about as they please, crossing from one diagonal to another regardless of how the sun or moon shines. There are even shades that I am certain are not from any light source, shades that move independently and lurk in the corners.

I kick all the shades in the corners of course, and sometimes my husband runs upstairs to see what is the matter, why I have been making such a terrific racket.

"It's only the shades, darling," I say calmly, and he can only stare back, blank.

For how can he know about shades? Shades in my mind, shades in the corner, shades in the room… What can he know? And, thus, how can he control them? He may control my body, he may control where I stay… but where my mind wanders, he cannot control.

* * *

Well, it is near Christmas, or New Years' – it's the holidays – and in any case, the walks that Mlle. Lautrec, Adele, and I have usually taken have ended. It is partly because of the snow, and partly because of Mlle. Lautrec's own paranoia…

You see, one day Mlle. Lautrec stopped to speak to some friends of hers. Adele and I slipped away and approached a wonderful tree. It was bare of its leaves, for winter was practically upon us. Still, I never pass up the chance to climb a tree if I've been trapped for a long time.

But how could I leave Adele by herself to watch her mother climb up a tree?

So I grabbed Adele and began climbing up, up and up and up, till we were sitting on a very sturdy branch. Adele could only stare out, amazed, at the view, as I did.

We had only sat for a short time when Mlle. Lautrec ran frantically by, anxiously calling out my name and my daughter's name. I wanted to play for a little longer, and not alert her of our whereabouts, but she was nearly in tears, so I called out, "Mlle. Lautrec!" from up in the tree.

She glanced up and jumped, astonished at our location, I suppose. (I do not see what is so odd about climbing a tree with your daughter!)

"Charlotte!" she shouted (again, I wondered that she should address me so informally, and not as the respected "Madame"). "What are you doing up there? Come down right now!"

"But Adele is enjoying the view!" I shouted back, and indeed, Adele was giggling and smiling wonderingly at the sight.

"Charlotte!" shouted Mlle. Lautrec again. "You must stop this madness! Henri may return soon, and you can't still be in the tree…"

I sighed. Henri, always there to end my fun while he embarked on his own pleasure. "Very well. Would you like to catch Adele?" And I grabbed a hold of Adele and held her out over the branch above the maid.

"No!" Mlle. Lautrec protested vehemently. "Charlotte, no!"

I laughed. Come now, she needed to have some fun more often!

I let go of Adele and, just as I knew she would, Mlle. Lautrec caught her without trouble. I myself began climbing down swiftly and easily.

"Let me hold my child again," I said when I returned.

"Absolutely not!" said Mlle. Lautrec breathlessly, fearfully. She clutched to my child with an iron, viselike grip as she made her way home, walking so fast I could hardly keep up.

I let her continue like that. Poor thing, so easy to frighten!

Luckily, Mlle. Lautrec never brought it up to my husband – I suppose she would have gotten in trouble for bringing me outside in the first place.

I sit in my room and watch the shades and shadows crawl across the ceilings, the floor, the walls, the windows, the door. They are people unto themselves now, with a distinct form and shape. A head, shoulders, arms, torso, legs… Very shadowy, yes, but with shapes now. They go as they please, and I follow them, all across the walls and the room, encircling themselves over and over. I find them there even in my slumber, circling and draping the landscape of my dreams. They are the inhabitants of realms no rational mind can dominate…

* * *

After that, Mlle. Lautrec never let me outside again.

However, after such a wonderful time outside, did she think I would be satisfied stuck in my room anymore? I would gladly march about the house if I could, if only the door were not locked!

For my door is always locked, and the windows always unbreakable. Though it's not for not trying that I know. Just the other day I spent the entire afternoon clawing and scraping at the windows. Countless cuts marred both the smooth, flawless glass and my own hands. Mlle. Lautrec, of course, was none too pleased, and looked frankly alarmed to find the glass in such condition.

"Oh, don't worry about the glass," I informed her calmly as she stared, horrified. I absentmindedly rubbed the tops of my bloodied hands. "It's only a bit of glass, and anyway, it won't break…"

"It's not the glass… It's… It's…" But she never finished her sentence.

Odd people, maids are!

But now that I cannot escape through the glass, I spend my nights now, awake, restless, thinking of ways to unlock the door. The door can be locked from both inside and out. Inside, one needs a key. Outside, a person needs only to switch the lock and the door is stuck.

It obsesses me, my goal!

I sleep all day, of course, to please Mlle. Lautrec and my husband. They are happy to see me rest all the time, and think that I am always that way.

They are, again, mistaken, for they do not see me at night.

I do wonder what they see…

I feel better with the recent excursions still benefiting my body, and the new plans my mind has worked itself to create. They, too, think I am better.

"It is so dark in here," my husband once commented. "I am glad you have got better with this darkness!"

I quite agree. Some may think that this darkness would have obstructed my health – and it did, it used to. But now… These shades keep my mind busy, keep me company each day, dancing across the room and blinking and appearing out of nowhere. Sometimes I take out the clothes from my dresser and throw them at the shades, just to see if I can hit them, but now they are too fast, they are invincible…

* * *

Tonight is Christmas Eve.

Christmas, if you do not know, is a rather peculiar tradition that the city-dwellers observe. I myself never celebrated it in Upsala, but to each city its own, I guess?

At any rate, these days in late December and early January are full of festivities and gift exchanges. Personally, I find it a daft and silly time, an excuse for merry-making and balls. For that is what my darling husband did tonight. Without me, of course.

He has just returned home, a little earlier than usual, from the ball he and his other manager (or managers) hosted at the Opera House tonight. I hear the door open and from the corner of my eye, I see that it is my husband and Mlle. Lautrec at his side.

"Charlotte?"

I do not reply. Outside, snowflakes are drifting downwards gently. They cast rather interesting shadows upon the wall, in addition to the shades already there. I cannot pay much attention to my husband or the maid; it is far more entrancing to watch the shades move across the room, alight upon my husband's visage.

"Charlotte, are you well?" asks my husband, concerned. "Did you hear me?"

"Of course." My eyes continue to track the course of the shadows drifting down the wall. "Back so soon?"

My husband nods. "Yes, rather tiring night it was… It is a good thing you did go with me, it would have tired you out so… I left it to the other manager to oversee the rest of it… I shall return, of course, either tonight or tomorrow."

I shrug. There is another reason, I know, and I tell him so.

"Why, why yes," he stammers, surprised. "I – I wanted, of course, to – to stay home with the one I love most! It is Christmas Eve, after all, and it is my duty to be here."

I smile gently. Not only is a fool, but he is also a liar. Or one who prefers half-truths.

"Of course," I say. I turn to the maid and approach her. Even in the dim shade, I can see her stiffen and back away slightly.

"Oh, Margot," I say, using her first name as I swiftly embrace her stiff form. "You have done so much for my family. For caring for me, and for Adele! Thank you. You are so helpful to my family, and whatever you want? It is yours. I share… exchange… it with you willingly."

"Oh, do you?" she says hopefully, and weakly returns the embrace before pulling away. "I am so glad you say that, it only makes me feel so much better…"

I nod. "Anything. You have done so much, you deserve whatever we can provide you."

She smiles. "Thank you, Charlotte. You are so sweet. Good night." Her words are right, but she seems impatient to leave. She turns to face my husband, and in that moment, in that brief moment, I saw. I saw everything. I saw their shadows turn to face each other, saw their shadows drifting ever closer to each other, saw the way their eyes regard each other so kindly, so tenderly, so…

In a way I would never know…

But surely it is a trick of the light, a trick of the shades, the shades in this room deceiving me…

"Let us go," she says, and at once the two leave my room. The door shuts behind them, and I hear the click as one of them locks my door.

My words are meaningless, for the exchange took place long ago. So this evening I am alone, with only the softly falling snowflakes and shades for company.

It is no matter, for it is my triumph tonight.

For, tonight, while I spoke sweet, empty words to the maid and embraced her, my hand snatched her key.

* * *

I wait for the perfect moment.

Should I really use the key that I have? Should I really? I am breaking someone's trust, I am sure.

The one shade there beckons temptingly towards the door. It steals outside, then reappears a moment later. It is laughing at me!

I jump off the bed and kick at it.

"I can't do this!" I tell it. "I can't! She's always been so kind to me, I can't use what she unwittingly gave me…"

When it is late, very late as I can judge by the moon, I can take it no longer. Quietly, silently, I unlock the door and open the door. I peer outside, and when I am certain no one, besides the shade, is there, I step out.

It fills me with such joy to sneak out as I do! Such a feeling of hard-won independence!

I do not think I shall go outside. It is far too cold, and it is snowing, anyway. I laugh silently to myself; to think, after all this time of wishing to be outside, I had rather stay in!

I watch the shade as it creeps along down the stairs. It makes its way past the maids' room, Mlle. Lautrec's room.

"But wait," I say, and carefully twist the knob to Mlle. Lautrec's room. It is unlocked, to my surprise.

But even more to my surprise is that it is empty inside. Everything is folded neatly together and clean, but the bed is empty.

Where is Mlle. Lautrec?

The shade impatiently glides out of the room and down the stairs, and I follow it. It knows where it's going. It does.

I make my way down the stairs, and stop in front of a door on the second floor. My old room. The old room that I used to sleep in. I watch as the shade creeps underneath the door's frame and disappears.

I look back to the front of the door, and pause.

Grunts. Groans. Moans of ecstasy and pleasure escape from the room.

I am afraid to go in. Afraid to see what has happened, afraid to confront the exchange. But I must follow the shade; it knows where it goes.

Carefully, hand trembling so much, I push the door open, already slightly ajar.

Inside, two huddled shapes, rolling and pushing and shoving. I can see their pale, white skin gleaming in the moonlight. One of them, with long curly hair sprouting from its head, straddles the other, slides on it… They are dangerously close to the edge of the bed…

With astonishing speed, the other shape growls and rolls the long-haired form down. They tumble to the floor, limbs entangled and confused.

But they do not notice me. They laugh, breathing each others' names.

Margot. Henri. Margot. Henri.

I can only stare. Stare and stare and stare.

Stare as the shade crosses my eyes, crosses their bodies, alights upon them, dances upon them, mocks me, laughs at me…

Quietly, they do not notice me, I make my way to Henri's side of the closet. I pull out his long frock coat. Pull out his soft, felt hat. It is time for me to leave, and I shall not go as this broken wife. No, it is time for a new identity, a different shade.

Quietly, I step away from Henri's closet, and, in my indifference, the tip of my coat brushes against their sweating bodies. The two of them jerk, stop to look up at me.

"Charlotte!" Henri gasps as he pulls himself off the floor, from the tangle of arms and legs. He makes his way to me, his arms outstretched. "It's not what you think, please, Charlotte, it's not…"

And though he may have caught me yet again, and though his hands may arrest me in his grasp, and though he may lead me to horrors yet unknown, he cannot catch that one elusive matter.

For how you can you catch a shade?

* * *

A/N: I hope you guys are familiar with Leroux, because the next chapter takes a huge dive in to Leroux-canon! In any case, please tell me what you thought of this chapter. :) (hint: review!) 


	9. Shade in the Cellar

A/N: Yikes! It has certainly taken me a while to update. I blame that on my inexcusable laziness. But anyway, thank you so very much for all of your wonderful reviews. It makes me really glad to know that there are people still reading this crazy story of mine. There are only about 3 more chapters left to this crazy story after this one, so thank you for all of your support. :)

Thank you so very much to Erik and singforme for beta-reading and helping me work out the inconsistencies in this chapter.

* * *

So, this is the Opera House Henri manages. Or, rather, this is the fifth cellar beneath it. Dare I complain? In some ways, it is an improvement from the attic. True, it is darker – far, far darker, with only the rat-catcher to bring a little light as he passes through the cellars. There are no windows to let in what light may enter -- neither sun nor moon to show the passing of time. Those dratted shades are still there, lurking upon the walls, and though I kick at the corners where they group, I still cannot destroy them.

Yet, in some ways, it is an improvement. Time has no meaning, making the time I remain under the earth more bearable to endure. There is a fantastic lake to observe, lapping upon the shores of the cellars. Though I rarely see Henri, only once in what I assume are a couple of days to bring me food, I see more people wandering about to and fro in the darkness than I ever did in my attic. They are the Opera House staff, such as the stage hands and door-shutters. It is wonderful to see people once again.

In fact, to help pass the time, I have made it a game to see how long I can hide in the shadows, just a shade within the shade, observing them without them noticing my presence. At first, I was loud and clumsy, and when I captured their attention, they would look then turn away, as if embarrassed to see me. After learning my way around however, I no longer am a cause for embarrassment, for they rarely detect I am there.

Perhaps one of the most wonderful things about my new home is that I am free to wander where I wish. Certainly, it is eternally dark, but after all, being immersed in darkness for any length of time results in an adjustment to the dark. Thus; the darkness is hardly a matter of complaint anymore. I am free to explore the cellar as I wish, and have learned to navigate the maze-like cellar without anxiety or stress.

So, really, all in all, the situation is far more advantageous than ever before!

"Now, Charlotte," said Henri when he first delivered me to this cellar after I so rudely intruded upon his privacy and the maid's. "This is to be your new… room. I understand that it is terribly lonely in the attic, and so I thought, 'Well, why not let Charlotte stay at work with me, where I spend all of my long hours?' We'll be in closer contact now, darling, isn't that wonderful?" 

"Splendid," I remarked, surveying the darkness abroad.

"But, listen, Charlotte. You are not to leave this cellar at any time, do you understand?" admonished Henri sternly.

Henri listed quite a few reasons why I should remain in the fifth cellar and not go exploring the other four, but I hardly listened, for there was really no reason to leave. I know that to leave this cellar means risking losing this newfound freedom. Returning to the world above means returning to the world of double standards, of rules, of societal demands. Down here, however, I rule myself.

Of course, my new home could hardly be real in its perfection. It was only a little bit later that my home became more real, for there was one major drawback: the song.

That haunting, maddening tune that once in a while drifts its way to my ears, stopping me in my tracks to listen. It is beautiful, in a way, like my Angel of Music's song, but dangerous, too. It is horrible, really, because when I hear it I cannot stop myself from stopping to listen. It is something that I cannot ignore, something that _controls_ me.

Otherwise, this cellar really is a pleasant place to reside in!

* * *

I met with the Siren one day.

Yes, that is his name. At least, that is what he calls himself. The Siren. It is a fitting name, considering that it is his melodious, controlling voice that will bring my downfall, that will lure me into oblivion. I already know that.

That day I heard his song once again, as I have since I arrived here. But it did not remain a far-off, distant melody. This time … it was in my ears. In my head. Encircling me, entrapping me! Closer, closer…

There was a movement in the darkness, a shade moving within the shade, that swept by. I needed to move… but...

Such promises made by this song! Comfort, strength, courage…

And suddenly a lasso was around my neck and I was straining to breathe.

For a moment – and with death imminent, time most _certainly _had meaning then! – I struggled for a breath… a small breath of air… and they came.

"Good day, Madame Poligny," said that voice… the singing voice. I had started at hearing my formal name spoken. Who was this? How did he know my name? The voice chuckled, and said, "It would not bode well for you to struggle so. Every twitch means a little less air."

I held my silence.

"…Yes, I see that you have entered my cellar, Madame," the voice continued. It sounded amused, nonchalant, almost bored, as if strangling a person was a habitual thing. "And normally, I would kill you straightaway. But it seems that it is what your dear husband wishes me to do. It seems that was his sole purpose in locking you down here. Monsieur Poligny should know by now that one does not manipulate the Siren."

The Siren. I thought it to be a curious name. Fitting.

"No, Madame, I will not stand to be ordered around. And besides, a promise is a promise, and I _did_ promise not to kill. Another murder would draw too much attention. Bad business for me _and_ for your fool of a husband and his partner. What am I saying, you have no idea what I speak of. That is all right. There is only one thing that I wish for you to know."

I had gagged as the rope around my neck drew tighter.

"This is my domain, Madame Poligny, and mine alone. You still live because I have had the good grace to let you. You see? I need only to draw this lasso tighter –" here he demonstrated by pulling the rope around my neck tighter yet – "and you would be dead. But the Siren is merciful," and here the Siren snickered, "and, what's more, the Siren feels – what is it? – pity for you! Yes, Madame Poligny, poor mad creature as yourself, you cannot help that you do not understand…

"I will help you here, but you must help me first. Do you understand?"

The rope had lifted itself off my neck, and I collapsed to the ground, and simply breathed, relishing the air around me.

"_Do you understand?"_

The voice was sharper now, and had lost its friendly, conversational tone.

"…Yes…"

"I knew you would," said the Siren, returning to his amused tone. "Now, then, tonight is a gala night for the Opera House. Do you know what a gala night is? Good; you are not as stupid as your husband always claims. Tonight, there will be patrons and visitors crawling all over the Opera House. They will be curious and bold tonight, and they will dare to venture down into the cellars. That is unacceptable. I cannot always be there to stop them. I have work to do, you know.

"So, Madame Poligny, it shall be _your_ duty tonight to stop them. I don't care how you do it. Kill them, knock them unconscious, or simply politely lead them back to the theater… it is up to you. Look here, I'll even let you keep the rope to arrest them with."

I felt a rush of air and then a quiet pressure upon my arm as a rope fell upon me.

"I would advise you to keep your identity secret – you wouldn't want the state to realize what you are doing down here and then to ship you to a hospital, right? Believe me, Madame, even with the advances in medicine, one rarely returns from a hospital. Alive, that is."

I simply remained on the floor, gasping precious air.

"In fact, you may even pretend you are doing a service for the state! What say that, Madame? The Commune left terrible secrets behind in these dungeons… secrets the state does not want the public to know. And you would be doing a service to France by helping them keep it secret!

"So, if, tonight, you accomplish your job well, I shall let you share this cellar. But if you do not, Madame… you may find yourself with a noose around your neck. You see? It is a good deal for all of us. I bid you a good evening, Madame."

Then the Siren was gone.

Thereafter, I have closely guarded the entrances to the cellars each night there is a celebration. That is quite frequent, and this new job keeps me quite busy, busy enough that I do not always have time to pursue the shadows upon the walls.

It is almost fulfilling, this work. Instead of hanging around my room all day or caring for Adele – who, I regret to admit, is becoming a swiftly fading memory – my work has a direct impact on the Opera House and the Siren.

I have not seen the Siren since. I still hear his music – it is almost impossible not to – and I hate it.

Yes, I hate the Siren. I thought I had found freedom in this darkness. I had had free reign of the cellar, going as I pleased, singing to myself, with no one to disturb me. But now! He named himself well, for when that voice sings or speaks, I listen. I cannot do otherwise. I do his work for him. I am still under the command of someone else. And even when he is not there, I am under his control. My life now revolves around doing _his_ work, so that he may grant me life.

I _despise _it.

* * *

To make my life easier I have asked Henri to tell the Opera House guests not to enter the basements.

"I wish to be alone down here, Henri," I told him pointedly one evening he came to visit. "Your visitors annoy me... And if they are not careful, the shades will overtake them," I added, indicating the shadows in the corner.

Henri, however, saw only the shadows that his lantern cast on the wall. "Of course, my dear. I promise I will."

We know, however, that Henri cannot keep his promises. The visitors continue coming during the gala nights. And not just during gala nights, although why anyone should want to venture down here during work hours is beyond me. Actually, there is only one visitor – a Persian – who comes during the day.

He was there, prowling about the third cellar. He was clearly not a worker, or I would have recognized him. He was dressed rather nicely, as most frequenters of the opera are. However, he did have one unique characteristic: the astrakhan hat he wore.

As he crept along in the darkness, blindly feeling his way by the walls, with his odd little hat bobbing up and down as he passed through, I swiftly took out my rope and arrested him.

"Erik! Release me at once!" the Persian shouted. He did not struggle, which surprised me, for usually my prisoners struggle. Then I have to resort to more defensive measures. One visitor, I recall, came out fairly mangled from his encounter with me. It was truly a sordid and messy ordeal, and I do hope, reader, that if you happen to visit me in the cellars of the Paris Opera House, you will not end up like him!

"Be quiet," I snapped, and began dragging him to the exit of the cellars.

The Persian was silent as he walked along with me. "Who are you?"

"I am a shade," I said rather truthfully. "You have been caught trespassing these cellars – and it's not even during a gala night! I am taking you to the managers' office, and they shall deal with you."

The Persian was silent at this. We made our way to the first floor of the Opera House, and I nearly collapsed from the amount of white light streaming through the windows and reflecting off the floor! Light! It was a beautiful thing, and though I have grown used to the dark, I will never truly enjoy it as I do the light.

I smiled beneath my felt hat. Suddenly, I wanted to run outside, simply leave behind this Opera House and run! But I had a job to do, and I was not one to shirk my duties.

I did not bother knocking on the door when I entered Henri's office. I simply walked in, where Henri and the co-manager, Debienne, were conferring.

"Charlotte!" said Henri, startled. He rose from his chair so quickly his chair fell over. "What are you doing up here? Who is this?"

"This man," I said, "has been walking about the basements. I told you, Henri, I don't want intruders in there! You promised me!"

"Yes, yes, Charlotte, I am sorry," Henri said, looking rather shocked and bewildered all at once. He turned to face the Persian. "You, Monsieur – what were you doing down there? The cellars are off-limits for visitors," he said sternly. "Well?"

The Persian seemed at a loss for words. "I…"

"He's an eccentric fellow who likes looking at the props for the operas!" I shouted suddenly.

"Be silent, woman!" said Debienne sharply. "Learn your place! Where are your manners?"

"Debienne," said Henri distractedly. "It's all right. She's not in her right mind. Come on, Charlotte, return to your room. I shall make certain that this man does not come back."

And with that, Henri escorted me right back to the cellars. "Thank you, Charlotte. You've been a good girl. Now, stay here," he said, gently seating me upon the ground. "And don't come back up, understood?" He then left.

For a few moments, I sat there miserably, not caring whether the rats crawled about me or if my cloak was soaking through from the dank ground. What had I done? I had only meant to help. What reward did I get for arresting these people all the time? _Nothing_! Only the assurance of my survival!

Well, I wanted something better than that! I could just as easily get up and leave; live in the sunlight. I could even tolerate the wretched standards again, just to live a different life...

Suddenly, I realized I was not alone. There was the music, again, growing closer, and closer…

"Well done, Madame Poligny," said that wretched, hypnotizing voice of the Siren. "I had not thought you would remove that particular idiot. Such an annoying man, that one is. You have my utmost gratitude." The Siren was silent for a time, and even seemed to be musing something over. "It's terribly boring down here, is it not?" said the Siren slowly. "You deserve a reward. Tonight there is an opera. Would you like to see it?"

At first, I did not know how to answer. See the opera? See the opera? That thought had not occurred to me, for I had been so busy…

"Will you be there?" I asked flatly.

"Of course," answered the Siren. "I am everywhere, you know."

"Then I will not go." I did not want to be around the Siren! Every time he was around, he controlled what I did. And even when he was not, I was still under his command! I did not want a master dictating me what to do and what operas to see. I wanted freedom…

"No?" said the Siren sharply. _"You will go."_

That is how I found myself in Box 5 in the tiers above the theatre, watching an opera. The boxkeeper even brought me a footstool to rest my feet upon.

I suppose the Siren supposed that I was his little lady now, for under that pretense, he brought me a fan and flowers.

I left them behind.

I am no one's Little Lotte.

* * *

That eccentric Persian is here again! He thinks that I do not see him, but he is a fool!

For a moment, I simply watch him as he prowls the cellar. He seems to be examining the walls very closely, feeling them with his hands, brushing them with his fingertips. He seems intent on finding something, on understanding something…

I do not understand. What does he want? Does he wish to look at the scenery? He is on the wrong cellar, if that is his cause.

"_Get out!"_ I shriek suddenly, arresting him once again with my rope.

This time, the Persian struggles madly to free himself, and I nearly have trouble holding onto him. Nearly.

"Erik! Erik, help me! It's me, the Daroga! I saved your life! Stop this madwoman! Erik!"

What _is_ this fool talking about?

Swiftly, before I let go, I drag the struggling man up out of the cellars, across the Opera House, and back into the managers' office, where, once again, Henri sits with Debienne. This time, however, there are two other men in the room, two men whom I have never seen before.

"–Richard, Monarchmin, we would be delighted to–" Debienne breaks off when he sees me.

"Henri!" I shout. "This eccentric Persian has been prowling my cellar again! I thought I told you to put an end to this!"

Henri turns rather red in the face, and he makes an odd gulping sound as he glances from the two strangers in the room to me and back to the strangers.

"Charlotte," he stammers, "yes, you're quite right. I shall deal with him, now."

"That is what you always say!" I interrupt. "No, Henri, just hire him! He wants to see the scenery backstage, so just make him an employee! But I don't want anymore uninvited guests!"

"Yes, Charlotte, thank you," Henri says. He stands up, and ushers me very quickly outside the office, under the bewildered eyes of the two strangers and Debienne. "Wait outside, Charlotte, I shall be with you very soon."

Henri walked back inside, and shut the door… But I could still hear them speaking.

"Who was _that_ character, Poligny?" I hear one of the strangers inquire.

"She's quite a useful personality," Debienne chortles. "Explain to them, what kind of Opera House this is…"

I had heard enough.

I went home.

* * *

And so, the Persian did not enter the cellars anymore. I continued leading unwelcome visitors back to the world above. The Siren continued taking me to see the operas under the pretense that I was his little lady with a footstool and a fan and chocolate and flowers, and that he was giving me freedom for a night.

It was my life.

For a time.

* * *

A/N: So what did you think? Let me know with a review! ;D 


	10. Self Condemnation

A/N: Thanks, SingForMe, for the beta-reading!

Reviews are much appreciated. :)

* * *

When the Siren lost interest in me – and when I say "interest," I say that in jest, because the Siren was no more interested in me than he would in a wall – I was left alone for a long time. Months, probably.

That loneliness was abruptly disturbed tonight during another celebration. It was not the Siren passing by that I noticed initially; it was the thing he was dragging behind him. Peering into the dark as the Siren walked by, I recognize the stagehand uniform.

"Who is that?" I call out to the Siren's back.

The Siren pauses. "Joseph Buquet."

I leap to my feet. "Buquet?" I ask. I did not know the stagehand – I was familiar with his dead face, true, but not the name. "How did he die? Do the managers know?"

The Siren shrugs. "They will find him hanging in the third cellar, between a flat and a backdrop for the _Roi de Lahore_. The managers will not be aware of it for some time."

I frown in the darkness at his cryptic language. "But how?"

The Siren continues on his way. "Listen to the ballet rats," he says, his voice drifting further away. "It's never what you might think…"

I sit back down and sigh. For some time I remain there, not bothering to bat away the shades prancing about beside me. I am far, far too tired to do even that. It is strange, really, how tired I suddenly am. I had so much energy before, but now… Now, it seems that fatigue clouds my mind far more than do the shades. Perhaps it is simply a problem in my mind…

It is a gala night: Henri must be up there. Henri, completely oblivious to Buquet's death – but only because the Siren says so.

I sit here in the dark, hardly awake, waiting for intruders – but only because the Siren says so.

Until now, the Siren has not spoken to me in months. Yet he still expects me to follow his every command. He forgets that it is his voice that controls me, and without exposure to that voice, I will do as I wish…

Anyway, I rather want to see Henri again in the light, above the ground. Perhaps I may even see some of his patrons, or some of the other guests!

* * *

Unfortunately, despite having lived beneath the Opera House for so long, I do not know my way around the actual Opera House. I wander about rather aimlessly for quite some time, attempting to follow a crowd of loud guests. As I pass by, I look about the Opera House. I have seen it before on a few occasions, but never has it looked so grand as tonight!

Suddenly, I see a hideous apparition walking along beside me.

I stumble forwards in surprise, and look to my side again.

There is no one there. Only an ornate wall.

The crowd did not hear me stumble. I turn around warily to look behind me.

There is no one there.

Slowly, I retrace my steps – there! There it is! It is a death's head standing before me, its face so pale and ghastly and expressionless! Its nose is long and white, and as I survey the terrible figure before me, its own sunken eyes appraise me. My mouth opens slightly in shock; its mouth twists grimly in a gruesome parody.

I tear my eyes away from its face. It is wearing a black cloak… and a black, felt hat…

It is my mirror image.

Me.

I begin to laugh, and the grating sound – so much harsher above ground than below – that emits from my mouth momentarily stops me.

"Why, hello, Charlotte," I say, my voice so gruff that I can hardly tell if it is a male's or a female's voice anymore. "You've changed so much since I last saw you…"

I laugh again. Henri must have observed my transformation over the years as I ran about the cellars, but I, with no mirror, had not seen it. All those years, stowed away in an attic and then in a cellar, far from the sun – it is no wonder my face is so ghastly pale now! The dark bags under my eyes make my eyes appear far more sunken then they probably are. Yet there is no mistaking the dull, exhausted gleam – they no longer resemble Little Lotte's sparkling blue eyes.

I take off the felt hat I have worn for years, and watch in the mirror as my hair cascades. Although I have taken the liberty to steal into the dancers' dormitories to wash up, I certainly did not have the liberty to groom myself well. My hair, though clean, is a tangled mess, resembling choking weeds in a garden rather than a lady's lovely curls. It is no longer quite as golden, either – it has turned darker, resembling dirt more than sun, and…

What is that? A gray hair!

I peer closer into the mirror. Sure enough, amidst my dark hair are a few gray ones. The image of my mouth twists glumly. The gaunt figure in the mirror raises its pale, emaciated hands to pull regretfully at the gray hairs.

I sigh, and back away. I turn around to examine myself in profile. Hmmm. At least I am still thin – perhaps a little _too_ thin. Shrugging, I gather my hair back into the hat, and continue on my way. The crowd ahead of me has almost disappeared.

Soon I find myself on one of the floors in a room full of people. There are mainly ladies in this room, both young and old. While a few are dressed as they would on the streets, most of them are wearing dance attire and tutus. Apparently, it is a meeting place for the ballet rats of this Opera.

For a celebration, it is startlingly solemn. The rather large dancer who is making some sort of farewell address right now acts as if she's speaking a morose eulogy for a deceased one. Only one young dancer is smiling and giggling, and in the midst of all the dancers, I recognize my husband and Debienne, both of whom are smiling rather blandly. The rest of them, however, appear as if someone has died. Then again, Buquet _is_ dead, and the Siren did seem to hint that the rats would know…

Without warning, the single smiling ballet rat shrieks out in terror:

"The Phantom of the Opera!"

Where? A phantom? I look around, and then notice that the dancer is pointing a trembling finger at me! Me! The Phantom!

Everyone has now seen me, and I know that if I wish to speak to Henri, I must not make this sort of appearance again. He has seen me, and his eyes have widened in shock. I am not sure which is more shocking: the fact that I am above the ground or that I look rather hideous. I hastily depart from the crowd, disappearing before they know I have left.

Quickly, I make my way up the rest of the flights, to the third floor where the managers' office is. I slip in, making sure to keep my felt hat jammed firmly across my face so that my countenance is unrecognizable. I stand in one of the corners, apart from the crowd, which seems not to have noticed me. I do not recognize any one here, save for two men I remember having seen in this very office the second time I arrested the Persian.

Some time later, Henri and Debienne arrive, and they swiftly make their way to the two men from the office. I sit down at the end of one of the tables, and wait. It is terribly boring with the subdued atmosphere, and I admit that my drowsiness is all but increased by the morose dinner. I am so tired, so drained that I do not bother eating anything – I might fall asleep and choke.

Henri and Debienne are making a speech – another farewell speech, wishing the two men from the office, whose names are apparently Armand Moncharmin and Firmin Richard, luck as they _became the new managers_.

So! This is a _farewell_ celebration for Henri and Debienne! They are retiring – and they hadn't told me!

I notice that two tiny keys are being passed around. One of the guests hands it to me, and several of the other guests, watching the key make its way around the room, notice me at last. Some of them I recall seeing from the dancers' lounge, and at first they smile rather benignly at me. I, however, can see nothing humorous about the situation, and simply stare back at them blankly. Soon, they turn away, and nothing more is said. The fellows sitting beside me appear rather uncomfortable.

Henri and Debienne sit down at the middle of my table. While it is clear that everyone else knows I am there, Henri does not. I snort derisively to myself. Such a blind fool my husband has turned out to be!

I do not wish to be here that much longer. The attention is getting to be too much, and I am growing weary from struggling to stay awake.

"The _rats_ are right," I say loudly in my harsh voice so that Henri can hear me.

Startled, both Henri and Debienne look up, and are at once bewildered to find me there once again.

"The death of poor Buquet is perhaps not as one might think."

In spite of themselves, both Debienne and Henri shout out, "Buquet is dead?"

"Yes," I answer calmly, stifling a yawn. "He was found this evening hanging in the third subcellar between a flat and a backdrop for the _Roi de Lahore_."

With that, I fall silent. Henri seems terribly upset and agitated – of course, his deranged wife is sitting among his high-class guests. What sort of impression might I make upon the new managers? He and Debienne exchange glances, and then stare back at me, and then back to each other. Their faces are turning paler by the second, and at last Henri, Debienne, and the two new managers turn to leave.

Well. If they will leave, then I shall as well.

* * *

I return to my cellar, and for a while, I sleep. Some time later, I am abruptly awoken when Henri prods me awake, papers and lantern in hand.

"You are leaving me, Henri," I say dully before Henri can begin.

"Why, er, what makes you think that?"

"It was your farewell party. And now you are leaving me."

"Oh, no, Charlotte, the party. What were you doing wandering around up there? You are not allowed to roam the theatre, you know. And yes, I am retiring. In fact, that was what I wanted to discuss with you now – I shall not be returning here very often, if at all, and perhaps it would be better to relocate you…"

"Why didn't you discuss this before? Before when there was time?" I snap. "Where is it you wish to send me?"

"Well, er, Charlotte, don't take this the wrong way, but Paris houses quite a few nice hospitals-"

I stand up suddenly, and Henri backs away in surprise. "An asylum, Henri? You wish to ship me away to a hospital where I may die sooner?"

"Oh, no, Charlotte, not at all like that. I…"

"I want to stay here, Henri," I say. "I've never been so free down here… away from you." I pause. "I want a divorce."

To my surprise, Henri's eyes light up. "Do you, Charlotte? Why, that's… that's most unfortunate, truly, but entirely convenient. I just happen to have the divorce papers with me, and all I need is for you to sign and we shall be done with this." Henri waves the papers in his hands. "I mean, it _is_ more convenient since we hardly ever see each other, and I'm sure that both of us have other careers we wish to pursue, and-"

"Do you have a pen?" I interrupt, reaching for the papers.

"Why, yes, here-"

And with that, we were divorced.

"Terribly sorry, Charlotte," Henri babbles even after the fact. "But, you know, if you ever need any help, or if you don't wish to stay down here anymore-"

"I condemn myself to these cellars, Henri," I cut in harshly. "I do not take orders from you…" A yawn swallows up the rest of my words.

Henri nods, then sighs. "I'll be sure to let the new managers know that… And, rest assured, Little Lotte, but they shall never divulge your presence to the public… It would be bad business for both you _and_ me, eh? Ah, my Little Lotte, we've come such a long way, haven't we? But times are changing… Good Lord, that chorus girl, Mademoiselle Daaé – _she's_ certainly changed, and so unexpectedly."

Daaé… The name sounded rather familiar.


	11. Visits From The Past

A/N: Hi everyone! I'm finally back from Europe! Here's a brand-new update for you! Tra la! Remember to review! One more chapter left!

* * *

It was only a long, long time later, during the beginning of M. Pedro Gailhard's administration, that I discovered why the name Daaé sounded so familiar. That was around the time when my head began to hurt, when splitting headaches began to resound through my head. Already so tired that I did not have the energy to even combat the shades that were swiftly enveloping me, quickly destroying my mind, the headaches only confirmed that I was losing, that my mind was dying…

I had forgotten my family, but they had not forgotten me. M. Gailhard himself brought them to see me. He was tremendously grateful for my state service, and had even considered obtaining an official title for me from the government. Nevertheless, he promised to keep my identity a secret from all…

…but two familiar faces.

"Lotte?" I hear a voice call out. It is not the Siren's voice; it is someone far more familiar than that. It is an older man's voice, a voice and accent I have not heard in years…

"_Lotte?_" I hear M. Gailhard's voice exclaim incredulously. "You call her _Lotte?_"

"Of course," I hear another voice snap. This time, it is an older woman's voice, with that same old accent I have not heard for so long… "That is her name. We used to call her our Little Lotte."

M. Gailhard snorts derisively – he cannot believe this monstrous shade was once called Little Lotte, I suppose. Much less that this shade would have parents to look for her.

For those are who the two voices belong to.

Mama and Papa.

"Mama?" I squeak rather feebly, and step out from behind the corner I had been hiding behind.

And there they are, standing before me, shrouded in darkness – my mother and father. M. Gailhard stands there as well, but I pay no attention to him.

They are so much older than what I remember! Although, I suppose the same could be said of me… Their hair is thinner, faded, and there are wrinkles upon their faces that were not a part of my memory…

But now their tired eyes widen in surprise and horror. Mama chokes out a startled wail, and grabs onto Papa, who roars at me, "Demon! Stay back! Monsieur Gailhard! What is the idea of leading us to this monster? Is this some kind of joke?"

I shrink back behind my wall, head pounding more than ever from Papa's exclamation. They don't recognize me!

M. Gailhard is now trying to assure my parents of my identity. "Monsieur, madame! Calm yourselves! This is indeed Charlotte, divorced wife of Monsieur Henri Poligny. Please, monsieur, you must understand that M. Poligny stowed her away in the cellars for all these years, and living beneath the Opera House can do such things-"

Mama wails even louder. "No! That… that _thing_ is not my daughter!"

On and on they shout, with my headache growing even worse, until at long last, M. Gailhard convinces my parents to approach me more kindly.

Mama is the first to make the move towards me as I sit beside my wall. She creeps along so hesitatingly and warily, lantern in hand shaking, that I can hardly believe this is my own mother. Slowly, slowly, she crouches down, and lifts a trembling hand to my face.

Her hand, clammy from the underground temperature, touches my cheek, and I, unused to human contact, flinch involuntarily. Mama wrenches her own hand away.

"Yes, it is me, Mama," I say rather dryly, and I remove the felt hat from my head. "Not a monster… not a demon. Only Lotte…"

Mama's gaze drifts across my face. She raises her hand and reaches for my face again, as if searching for any hint, any semblance of the daughter she once knew. That perhaps the face she examines now would be the face she examined so often so many years ago…

Suddenly her eyes widen. "Good Lord," she whispers in realization.

* * *

Of course, once my identity had been established, Mama absolutely would not hear of my living beneath the Opera House. She sent me above the ground, and despite M. Gailhard's protests, sent me straightaway inside one of the dressing rooms that the performers used.

"With all due respect, Madame," says M. Gailhard in his most authoritative tone as Mama leads Papa and I to the nearest dressing room, "I cannot allow you to use the Opera House dressing rooms. It's already in use, and we can't afford-"

"Then cut the salaries you pay your performers," Mama snaps bossily. She ushers me inside the room, and beckons Papa to hurry along inside as well. "This Opera House has ordinary street clothes for young ladies, does it not?" she adds.

M. Gailhard stands exasperated in the doorway, taken aback by Mama's demeanor. "Why, of course, Madame…" He changes the topic. "But, Madame, haven't you ever heard of Mademoiselle Daaé?"

I had. I perk my head up curiously, while Mama says curtly, "No."

"Well, she was a very popular singer here, nearly on her way to becoming a diva. This was her very dressing room, and she met a strange downfall… She disappeared, never to return… They say that this dressing room is cursed-"

"So be it," Mama says indifferently. "Lotte cannot be cursed anymore than this. Now, if you please, clothing for my daughter…?"

M. Gailhard throws his hands up and sighs, then turns around exits the room, closing the door behind him.

"Lotte," says Mama in Swedish once M. Gailhard is gone. She sits me down upon the chair by the dresser, and looks kindly into my eyes, pitying the strange creature her daughter has become. "How have you been?"

I smile weakly. Have I forgotten my language already? I hesitate, and rather slowly string together the words. "Rather tired, I'll admit." Before they can question me, I launch into my own questions. "How did you find me? How did you know I was here? What has been going on since I left?"

Papa smiles. "It's been so long, Lotte. You married that Frenchman and then you were gone! And we never heard from you since! We've been getting along well back in Upsala, but we had begun to worry for your sake. Your husband, Henri, would not answer our letters… so we traveled to Paris ourselves, and found him. He finally admitted that he'd divorced you, and were now living in the Paris Opera House." Papa's gaze hardens. "What is the meaning of this, Charlotte? What sort of middle-class lady do you think you are? Divorcing your husband! Living like a demon! What-"

"Hush, dear," Mama says suddenly to Papa. "Don't overwhelm her." To me, she says, "We saw your daughter with Henri, Charlotte. I cannot believe you never wrote us about her! She's such a darling girl! How could you stand to give her up?"

I nod, puzzled. A daughter? I remember… "Her name was Adele, was it not?" I ask.

Mama and Papa frown. "Yes…" They exchange a quick glance – but not so quick that I do not notice the worry.

Suddenly, we hear a knock at the door. "I have the clothes, Madame," says M. Gailhard from behind the door.

Mama and Papa stand up to leave. As Papa opens the door and retrieves the clothing for me, Mama says, "We'll leave you to change from those old garments of yours. Get some rest, Lotte. Your father and I will be around the Opera House. Do not leave the room; we shall return."

With that, Mama and Papa depart, leaving me in yet another sort of birdcage with clothing to go with it. I frown at the clothing Papa dropped in my lap. A dress, of course. No, a few nice dresses, to give me a choice. A dress or a dress – not much of a choice, really. And the corset – who could forget that?

So. Christine Daaé's dressing room, this is? I remember now, that name… A distant memory of a little golden-haired girl, giggling madly to herself as she threw down my doll into the grass…

I look curiously around the room. It _is_ a nice room – leave it to Christine to secure the nicest dressing room for her own, spoiled self. Dropping the bundle of clothing to the floor, I rise rather tiredly from my chair. There is a large, ornate mirror on the wall, and before me stands a twisted, pale reflection that does indeed resemble a demon rather than Little Lotte. A demon before it; behind it, who knew?

I turn away from the mirror, and look to the dressing table. Perhaps Christine left some old relics or souvenirs of her past here…

As I peruse each drawer (each of them revealing the standard dressing room fare, but nothing that would suggest that Christine had lived here), I wonder at the irony that Christine had been there all this time – and I had never known!

Rather half-heartedly, I open and shut each drawer door, and when I open the last drawer-

"Hello, Lotte."

I stumble backwards at the sound of the tiny voice emitting from the drawer, and fall ungracefully to the floor.

"Surprised to see me?"

I crawl slowly back towards the open drawer, trembling from both fright and excitement. "Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm insulted! You don't remember your old friend?"

I peer over the top of the drawer.

"My goodness, Lotte, you're hideous! What have you been _doing_ all these years?"

"You're not in too good of a shape yourself," I respond wryly to my doll.

For my doll it is, resting in the bottom drawer in Christine Daaé's old dressing room. And while I know I do not look well myself, my doll could certainly outdo me in terms of ugliness. Old and worn-out before, she now looked as if she'd been stomped upon and drowned and forsaken all at once. Half of her faded blonde curls had been torn out, an eye was missing, and her nose was gone altogether. The area where her lips should have been was seamless, and her skin was marred by spots of dirt and mud. Her frock, previously a rather grayish red, was now completely gray with only the slightest hint of dull pink.

"Yes, but that's because our old friend Christine was none too gentle with me," my doll retorts.

I gasp. "Christine! You've been with her all these years!"

"Why, yes, Lotte. So don't complain about ill treatment, because you don't know ill treatment until you know Christine."

"What did she _do_ to you?"

"Oh, the standard Christine fare, you know. Threw me around, lost me in the dirt – and then she left me here all alone in the Opera House, do you realize that? She left me!"

"Didn't you… didn't you ever try to talk to her?"

"Christine? Hah! She's a deaf little girl, Lotte! I _told_ you it was useless to try to teach her anything – she would never listen!"

I shake my head in dismay. "I'm so sorry for leaving you with her… I should never have…" Gently, I lift my fragile doll out of the drawer.

"But what have _you_ been doing, Lotte?" asks my doll slyly. "I have been pushed around by Christine all these years, but don't think I've lost my mind. But you?"

I bow my head silently, refusing to meet my doll's eyes.

"Ah… so it was _precisely_ as I had predicted, wasn't it, Lotte? You forgot me. You forgot to listen to my advice. _You forgot_. And so you lost your mind… Tell me, who did you lose it to?"

"Henri Poligny and the Siren," I mumble shamefully.

My doll snorts. "Pathetic."

For a long moment, there is complete silence.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

"What?" I ask, confused, the sound of my own voice hurting my head.

"You know what to do."

I stare, bewildered, at my doll.

My doll sighs, and says, "Lotte. Your mother and father are not here right now. Not even the Siren is here! Poligny is most certainly not here. Look how free you are! You're in a dressing room – but it is unlocked!"

"I am so tired… and my head hurts so much now…"

"Quit making excuses, Lotte. You complain – don't you understand? You have so little time left! Leave the people who have imprisoned you. Walk away. Do it!"

I stare at the door.

And open it and walk out of the Opera House.


	12. A Final Leap Into Freedom

A/N: This is it, guys. Finis. I just can't thank you enough for honoring me by having read this phic. Thank you so very much to all of my reviewers: lilinnocentvivi, gryffingirl77, Lily, DarkPriestessofAssimbya, The New Marguerite, Lydiby, phantomy-cookies, and Anna. You were the ones who let me know that someone was reading, and each of your reviews brightened my day. Thanks also to my beta-readers, SingForMe and Masque de Nuit, for having put up with a few of my chapters along the way.

If after this chapter you find yourself pining away for more Crazy!Charlotte, may I suggest that you check out my source of inspiration? I am guilty of finding inspiration from the short story _The Yellow Wallpaper_, written by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Yes, the author's name is Charlotte, and it's assumed that she is the narrator. Just Google the story and the author, and I'm pretty sure you'll find a free e-text version somewhere on the web. I borrowed so much from _The Yellow Wallpaper_ and Gilmans' life that I really should have written LLOTS as either a crossover or a phantomized version of _TYW_.

Disclaimer: I do not own _POTO_ or _The Yellow Wallpaper_. Please don't sue me. ;)

My other source of inspiration was _Phantoms of the Mind_ by Carrie Hernandez. As of right now, it's not available online. You'll either have to buy it in her published novel of short POTO stories called _Angel of Music: Tales From the Phantom of the Opera_ or you'll have to wait until she publishes the e-text version. I strongly encourage you to read it – it is an amazing story.

Much love and gratitude,

Senna, finished

P.S. Reread the tree part of Chapter 3 after you finish this chapter. It should make more sense now.

* * *

The tree smells sweet. It is springtime, and the dead, tangled branches now sprout beautiful pink blossoms and springy, green leaves. The bark is young, strong. Little ants and beetles crawl up and down the bark, living, searching.

I look down from where I sit, through the foliage and branches. Down, so far below, there are houses. There is also my house. But further away, there is a great forest, dark in the shade of its trees.

But here there is sunlight. Sunbeams alight on my face, sunbeams twist through my hair. The light warms me, comforts me, as no human could ever do.

I turn my face upwards, up towards the heavens. The sky is a clear, clear blue, as clear as an untroubled, innocent soul. No dark, menacing clouds dance across the blue. No shades or shadows blot the clear day.

I feel tired.

I feel fatigued.

I am weak.

My headache has grown stronger.

How my head pounds!

The doctors tell me differently, but I know what is wrong with me.

I escaped the shades. I escaped the Siren, escaped my husband, escaped the shades of the cellars, escaped the shades in the attic. I ignored the Angel of Music. I never remarried. I have not seen Adele since. I fold my clothing only once, put away my violin only once.

The last I heard of Adele, she was growing into a respectable young Parisian lady. Poor thing – she'll never know freedom now.

When I finally left my cage and walked freely, the shades disappeared from my mind.

I live on my own now. I work for my own money.

By all standards, I am free.

Yet not so free.

For though I do not hear from my Angel anymore, and though I have ceased all contact with my husband or my daughter, and though the Siren is most certainly dead, I am not completely free.

Still the madness is in my head. Still that shade consumes me, eats away at me, destroys me. It is in my head, all centered in my head. It causes me great pain. I can scarcely think. I faint. I can do nothing.

The doctors, of course, tell me there is no shade. That the thing which tears away at my brain, and leaves me with pounding, inexplicable headaches and exhaustion is simply cancer.

Cancer.

Cancer.

I am not free.

I have taken advantage of every right I have.

The right to work.

The right to divorce.

The right to never remarry.

Yet there is one right I have not yet taken advantage of…

I again stare at the ground, stare at the sky. Oh, how free I would feel if I could simply leap into the air and fly away! I would be like a dove, a bird of the sunlight, a bird of peace, flying away away away!

I believe there is one more right that is mine.

Just as we reserve the right to live, we also reserve the right to die.

I will not let this cancer consume me, this shade destroy my mind. I will destroy it first. A body is only a shell after all! The mind lives on, forever!

I will not let the shade take my mind. I will not spend my lifetime dying. No one shall make my decisions. I shall walk away on my own.

You stare up at me from the ground. Your expressionless face, your motionless body. You have nearly faded, become invisible. Yet I still remember you. And still you speak, still you goad me into action.

You laugh at me. You think I cannot do it. You think I cannot make this final leap.

You underestimate me.

You should be glad I was such a willing student.

The tree branch is sturdy. It supports my weight, even as I balance precariously on it. I crawl towards the end of the branch.

I close my eyes. I let go of the branch. I spread my arms.

I leap out into the air…

I am a bird, flying into the sunlight. Free to land, free to fly. No one shall clip my feathers this time, no one shall throw me into a cage. I am free. Free! The sunlight beckons, the ground approaches, faster and faster.

But I am free!

I am free!

* * *

_FIN._


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